The Bear's Tears

CHAPTER SIX: The Golden Road

Hyde was still dazzled by the snow-gleam from the mountains as the Douglas C-47 taxied noisily along the runway at Peshawar. There was thin snow on the plain, but the yellow earth revealed itself in patches, and the foothills beyond the town were stubbornly grey. But, as the old aircraft had circled and dropped towards the airport, he had seen, disbelieving, the mountains stretching northwards towards the Hindu Kush and even the Himalayas as if they would never end, never descend again to desert or plain.

It was cold in the aircraft despite the cabin heating. Most of the soldiers who were his companions, returning from leave in Karachi and Hyderabad and the southern towns, rubbed their arms beneath their greatcoats and shuffled their feet. They had taken little notice of him almost from the moment they had left Karachi's military airfield. He was foreign — English — and they probably guessed his purposes in journeying north towards the border with Afghanistan. They were refugee-camp nursemaids and policemen; he was probably a border-crosser, illegal, frowned-upon, tolerated but unofficial.

As the plane taxied to a halt, Hyde could see two trucks waiting for the returning troops. Drawn up perhaps ten yards from them was a Land Rover. A Pakistani officer who managed to appear neat, small, groomed even in green combat jacket and black and white scarf stood beside it. To Hyde, he might have been part of some ancient and romantic war film. He presumed it was Colonel Miandad of the Pakistani Bureau for the Border, a branch of army intelligence. He collected his hand luggage and followed the last of the disembarking soldiers through the huge door in the fuselage. Immediately he appeared on the passenger steps, Miandad's attention switched to him. Incongruously, the Pakistani officer raised a swagger stick in greeting and moved quickly to the bottom of the ladder, hand extended. The first of the trucks was already pulling away towards the low, shack-like airport buildings.

"Mr Hyde, I imagine?" Miandad said in clipped, almost accentless English. His features were narrow, dark, intense. His eyes glittered on either side of a hawkish, aristocratic nose. Hyde thought he appeared most like a civilised, assured pirate.

Hyde shook the extended hand, then they both replaced their gloves. "Colonel Miandad?"

"That is correct. Please come with me. Some coffee, I think?"

"Please."

Hyde climbed into the Land Rover. As Miandad got behind the wheel, he said: "You look very lost, very out of place, Mr Hyde — if you do not mind my saying so?" There was, after all, a hint of the comic Asian inflection expressing itself in archaic colloquialisms. Hyde was almost relieved to discover it.

"I am," Hyde admitted.

"Here." Miandad passed him a vacuum flask. Hyde poured himself a strong, sweet coffee.

"It is most unusual — your visit," Miandad continued. "However, perhaps not the strangest request we have received in the Bureau since the Russians entered Afghanistan. Usually, it is the CIA who require the most outrageous assistance." He smiled with very white teeth. He looked young around the mouth, experienced around the eyes, where fine lines had begun to appear. Hyde assumed he was probably in his mid-thirties.

"Coffee's good."

"Excellent. I — do not have great good news for you, Mr Hyde. Not so far, at least."

"Oh."

"Professor Massinger's idea was a very clever one," Miandad admitted. "In theory. And, as my old university teacher, he was sensible to think of myself, and to remember that I had been trained, at least in part, at one of your establishments in the Home Counties…" Miandad's eyes seemed to stare into the distance, towards the mountains, or towards memories that were years old. "… by your Sir Kenneth Aubrey. Who is now in such deep trouble—" The comic, sing-song inflections were stronger for a moment, as if Miandad parodied his English education and experience. "Yes, all that was very astute. However, it relied upon the assistance of the mujahiddin, and Pathan mujahiddin into the bargain."

"I see…"

The pilot and crew of the Douglas were already in the second truck, which then pulled away after its companion towards the airport buildings.

"I don't think you do see, Mr Hyde. And I'm afraid we should move now. There are sometimes eyes who watch, even in Peshawar."

"Russians?"

"The occasional one. No — Afghan army spies who cross over as refugees, some of them even posing as rebels. I will take you now to meet the man who is the problem. A mujahiddin leader called Mohammed Jan. A brave, independent, pig-headed man. Without his help, I do not think you could even cross into Afghanistan. You certainly will not be able to reach your objective." As he put the Land Rover into gear and revved the engine, Miandad watched Hyde. He seemed to be weighing the Australian, who felt his glance was clear and keen, missing little.

"What are our chances?"

Miandad shook his head. "I should say, Mr Hyde, that they are very poor. Mohammed Jan does not send his people into Kabul any longer. Certainly, he would not send them to attack the main headquarters and barracks of the Soviet army!"

The Land Rover bumped in the rutted wake of the two trucks. Hyde did not know whether his uppermost sensation was disappointment or relief. Three days ago, he had been asleep in the hired car as they approached Munich in a grey, wet dawn. A weary yet fiercely wakeful Massinger had been driving. In the moment that a halt at traffic lights had woken Hyde, he had seen a determination that amounted to passion in the American's face. The smile that Massinger had directed at him had been ominous in its self-satisfaction and its attempt to disarm. Hyde's relief at escaping from Vienna remained, but it was severely lessened by the promise in Massinger's smile.

In the forty-eight hours that followed, Massinger never left his hotel room; rarely was he not engaged in a telephone call. Hyde supplied his drinks and his meals, and otherwise wandered the city in the chill rain to escape the hothouse atmosphere. The man burned with organisational energy, and with an almost demented sense of purpose. His face and voice and the countries and persons who received his calls continually hoisted signals of danger to Hyde, unsettling him, making the adrenalin flow, eroding his reluctance.

Shelley, of course. Call after call to the telephone box outside the village pub. Shelley's wife had answered the telephone at first, and forestalled Massinger identifying himself. Shelley had gone to the telephone box and rung Munich; the first of perhaps twenty conversations between them. Then other people in London, then old colleagues in Langley and Washington or even retired to New England, Florida or California. It appeared as if Massinger were calling his whole, lifelong acquaintance. Then Pakistan…

Eventually this neat, purposeful man beside him. Colonel Zahir Miandad of Pakistani Military Intelligence; an expert on Afghanistan and the guerillas and the Soviet occupation. On that first occasion a crackling, scrambled military line down which Massinger had to shout to be heard. Perhaps the first of fifteen or sixteen calls, the last of them almost the beginning of Hyde's journey. Massinger had not asked him to go, simply told him what had been arranged, having continued in the assumed role of his field controller.

He had one simple task — the capture of a senior Russian officer from his headquarters in Kabul, or from any place he was to be found. Petrunin. The creator of Teardrop. Hyde, with guerilla help, was to attempt to capture Tamas Petrunin of the KGB.

"I have talked to Mohammed Jan on many occasions," Miandad was saying as the Land Rover nudged and shunted its way through the maze of rutted, frozen mud streets of one of Peshawar's ugly, low suburbs. It was a shanty-town, a disfigurement. Miandad's eyes were carefully intent upon the traffic — bicycles, oxen, ancient cars. Hyde saw a Morris which had been daubed orange and was probably pre-war, and an old, partially roofless Leyland single-decker bus. "I have talked to him of this matter twice — no, three times — in the last twenty-four hours. He refuses to entertain the idea." Miandad turned to him. "I cannot make a bargain on your behalf. You have no weapons to supply him. He is not interested in men and what is in their heads. Only in guns — rocket launchers, especially. He would capture the Russian First Secretary for you in exchange for a half-dozen 'Red Eye' launchers and suitable missiles!" Miandad's smile gleamed. "But — it is not the case. And, although I am able to assist you because I am much my own master here, I cannot offer our weapons on your behalf."

"I understand…"

Was he relieved, or disappointed? He could not decide. The Land Rover broke free of the restraining traffic, and almost immediately they were beyond the last petrol-tin and corrugated-sheet shanties and the bullocks and the wrapped women and turbanned men. The mountains that contained the border and the Khyber and the other passes into Afghanistan lay ahead of them, grey barriers climbing to dazzling white peaks and ridges. The contrast was too great, almost unbearable, burning like rage or nausea in Hyde's chest. The mountains loomed pitilessly over the river plain that was scabbed and diseased with the shanty-towns and refugee camps that surrounded and clung to Peshawar. Hyde had seen the like of it in South Africa, and on a few occasions when his flight from Australia had refuelled at somewhere like Bombay. The big-eyed, big-bellied children outside a tent made from a corrugated iron sheet and a length of cardboard, propped against one another…

He dismissed the images, both remembered and recent. It was his task to glide across the surface, not to look through the ice at what lay beneath. A white bullock ambled across the track. Miandad slowed the Land Rover, then jarringly they accelerated again. Disappointed, Hyde told himself. Even though Petrunin had almost killed him twice, directly or indirectly, and even though Hyde feared meeting him again — he was disappointed.

"Where is this Jan?" he asked.

"In one of the camps. One of the many, many camps," Miandad added wearily.

Before them, at the edge of the plain, the mountains gleamed with innocent snow and ice.

"But you think seeing him again will do no good?"

Miandad shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he murmured.

Alison Shelley pushed one trolley, Massinger the other, down the busy aisles of the hypermarket. The Shelleys' young daughter sat, legs akimbo, facing her mother from the trolley. She seemed contented with chocolate, the corners of her small mouth already stained like her fingertips. Shelley walked beside Massinger, occasionally depositing bottles or tins in the two trolleys. Were anyone observing them, their activities would have appeared an obvious fiction.

Peter Shelley had brought his family by hovercraft on a day's shopping expedition to Calais. Massinger had spent the wet morning patrolling the beach and seafront of the Pas de Calais like an exile, as if simply to catch some distant, half-illusory glimpse of his adopted country. His damp hair had been blown over his forehead, into his eyes, by a chill, searching, salty wind, his body had shivered and his raincoat had become sodden. Yet he had remained on the seafront until it was time to meet Shelley because across the grey, uninviting water he could sense Margaret's existence, know precisely the distance that separated them, thereby lessening it.

He had telephoned, of course. Eager to establish his health and safety, she had, once worry had been assuaged, allowed their last meeting to flood back, filling the present. She had ordered him home; he had feared she might have spoken to Babbington; the gulf between them had yawned open again. He had put down the receiver with the sensation of a physical pain in his chest and a hard lump in his throat which he was unable to swallow.

"Some smoked ham, darling?" Shelley asked absently. A short, dumpy woman with a thin, moustached, grey-featured husband in tow passed them, her arms laden with the weaponlike shapes of half-a-dozen long French loaves. The tip of one of them had already broken off. She held them protectively to her ample bosom, eyeing the two trolleys malevolently. Massinger turned his aside for her to pass.

"Very well," Alison replied, tight-lipped. She had accepted the fiction of the shopping expedition, yet her tension was evident. She appeared to blame Massinger for her situation, for Shelley's situation.

Shelley pointed at a large ham. The French delicatessen assistant flung it into a bag, twisted the neck, and then priced the item. Shelley dumped the parcel in Massinger's trolley, and seemed reluctant to leave the hanging rows of sausages, their skins crimped and wrinkled and provocative. Massinger read off the names of dozens of pates in earthenware bowls. There seemed singularly little point in the meeting, as if their tension and urgency had been separately expended and lost during their journeys to Calais, or during the past days when they had been in almost constant telephone contact.

"You think Hyde has any chance?" Shelley asked, reaching up to finger one of the dark, thick sausages. Liver, with herbs. Pate Ardennes, Massinger read automatically. Coarse. Suddenly, he did not feel hungry, because pates became pate-bread-wine and the occasion of picnics. He did not wish to remember them.

"I don't know," he replied. "It was some sort of chance — he had to be sent. Besides, it keeps him out of Europe at a period when he's in great danger."

Shelley's eyes narrowed, then he nodded. "I just don't see how—" he began.

Massinger's eyes glared. "Neither do I!" he snapped, his Bostonian accent more pronounced, as if he wished to dissociate himself from Shelley's very English doubt. "Hyde's a dead man if he's caught — maybe I am, too. Did you ever think of that, Peter Shelley?" His voice was an urgent, hard whisper. "I'm laying it out for you now, just as it is. Unless Hyde and ourselves can discover who and what is behind this — behind what happened in Vienna and what's happening to Aubrey — then we'll never be safe again. I don't intend to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder."

Shelley's face was smooth with disquiet, youthful and somehow incapable. After a moment, he said reluctantly: "I still can't see—"

"Look, I want Hyde to kidnap this Russian, Petrunin — I admit that. At the very least, he can be exploring the possibility. These Afghans have raided Kabul before, even the embassy. Miandad knows almost all there is to know about Petrunin — dammit, it could happen! There are moments when the man leaves Kabul, when he's vulnerable. It could happen…" Massinger's whisper tailed off into a doubt of his own. Then he shrugged off the mood, and said in a normal speaking voice: "It could, Peter. It just could."

"Perhaps…"

"All right — instead of that, what have you got for me? What do you think? Have you any suggestions to make — the rotten apple, I mean?"

Shelley shook his head.

"Hadn't we better keep moving?" Alison whispered fiercely, as if afraid they would become some kind of target in the next moment. Her body was curiously hunched over her daughter as she sat unconcerned, finishing the last of the chocolate. She had left fingerprints on the glass counter of the delicatessen. Massinger wondered whether Alison Shelley might want to remove them, for safety's sake.

"Yes, perhaps we should," Massinger replied as soothingly as he could. Alison's features distorted in resentment. Bottles clinked against each other as Massinger pushed his trolley away from the counter. "But, at least you agree that we're dealing with someone in your service who's helping the Soviets?" he said to Shelley with some asperity. Alison walked a little way ahead of them now, glancing to right and left at the shelves as if they concealed surveillance equipment. Massinger felt sorry for her, dragged into Shelley's world of perpetual mistrust.

"I have to — after your account of Vienna."

Massinger nodded vigorously. Shelley deposited some tinned mussels in the trolley. "Good," Massinger said. "There is a traitor, and he has to be a senior officer."

"Yes…" Shelley sounded alarmed.

"It's hell for my wife," Massinger blurted, perhaps angered by Shelley's reluctance, or because he simply could no longer ignore the imperative of his own future. He wished to be selfish at that moment.

"I'm sorry—?"

"After the whole business in '51 — being told he was murdered, the long pointless investigation, as pointless as the search for him in '46 and '47 — after all that, now to believe that Kenneth murdered him… pointed the NKVD at him, as good as killed him with his own hands…" Massinger's disconnected narrative tailed off into silence. His raincoat still smelt of damp and salt water. He felt bedraggled and defeated.

"Yes — I'm sorry," Shelley said eventually. "Yes, I agree with you. There is someone high up who wants Aubrey out of the way and is helping the KGB achieve their object."

"Then, what do we do?"

"Helsinki — could you manage that? I—" Both of them looked involuntarily at Alison Shelley, a little ahead of them and in the act of rescuing a can of motor oil from her daughter's grasp. The implication was clear to Massinger. His wife was already lost to him, Shelley's was not and he would not lose her if he could prevent it.

Massinger looked at Shelley, who averted his glance, then shrugged.

"Very well," Massinger said. "Why Helsinki?"

They followed Alison as she turned right, then paused as she halted almost immediately and began inspecting racks of children's clothes. Her nose seemed to wrinkle with disapproval as she examined the garments, glancing time and again in her daughter's direction.

"There's someone there who might talk to us — to you, if there's anything to talk about. Phillipson used to be station chief in Helsinki, and one of Aubrey's appointments. He was always loyal to the old man. He retired six months ago. He likes Finland and the Finns, so he didn't come home. He's still there, and out of things."

"Yes?"

"But he organised some of those meetings between Aubrey and Kapustin — the one on film, the one with the soundtrack…?" Shelley's voice was filled with temptation. They moved on again. A dress had been measured against the little girl, and found acceptable. Shelley's daughter was craning round in her seat to keep it in view.

"You mean, if there was any funny business, this Phillipson might at least have suspected it — noticed something out of the way?"

"Exactly. Oh, what about funds?"

"I'll take whatever you have. Credit cards leave traces. I haven't had time to make a transfer."

"I brought — well, quite a bit. Petty cash, you know…"

"Good. What will you do in the meantime?"

"We need a list of possibles."

"We do."

"I can't get access — it'll have to be memory work. It has to be — someone on East Europe Desk doesn't it?" Shelley looked crestfallen; a youngish bank manager whose head office is seriously displeased with him.

"Or higher still," Massinger said heavily.

"You'll come back to London, after Helsinki?"

"Yes, I think so." Margaret intruded, and he knew that to return to London was dangerous and inevitable. "Yes," he sighed.

"Where will you stay?"

"Hyde's flat," he replied without hesitation.

"It might work."

"Hyde thinks it will — temporarily, at least."

Alison Shelley was absentmindedly loading long French loaves into her trolley. Shelley appeared to be calculating the number of bottles of wine he might add to his present purchases without paying duty. Eventually, he reached for a claret from one of the higher shelves.

"Look at that," he said lightly. "Less than three pounds and perfectly drinkable. I shall have to talk to my wine merchant." He smiled. Massinger felt unnerved by the casual remark.

Instead of simply dispelling their grave mood, its reminder of normality brought images of Margaret flooding back. His hands were weak as they gripped the pushbar of the trolley. The bottles rattled softly against one another. His eyes were misty as he stared at his damp-stained sleeves. Shelley gently placed the claret in the trolley. Alison was waiting for them, impatient and decisive.

"Helsinki, then," Massinger murmured.

"Better than Afghanistan at this time of year," Shelley chided, insensitive of the causes of Massinger's gloom.

Massinger pushed the trolley forward with an abrupt, noisy jerk. Ahead of him, beyond the checkouts, rain streaked the glass doors of the hypermarket. Ahead of him more clearly was Helsinki and a man called Phillipson. Projected upon those images, as if they were no more vivid than a blank white screen, was the sense of separation from Margaret, even her hatred. He could see no end to that, no conclusion.

The ancient, gleaming Lee Enfield rifle was inlaid with gold and filigree work. It was cradled in the Pathan's folded arms almost like the sceptre of a king. The weapon, a relic or museum piece in age, was only the final assertion to Hyde that he was seated opposite one of the few men he could be certain was capable of killing him. Not desirous, not even an enemy — though certainly no friend — but simply sufficiently skilled, sufficiently strong.

Mohammed Jan shook his head once more as Miandad translated yet another of Hyde's pleas for assistance. The scarf of his green turban fluttered, emphasising his refusal. His blue eyes were hard and expressionless, startling amid the kohl on his eyelids and beneath his eyes. It was almost as if he did not see the Australian and his Pakistani companion. His lips, within the greyed sable of his beard, were a thin line of refusal. Mohammed Jan and his Pathan mujahiddin were interested in Petrunin — indeed they hated him and devoutly wished his slow death — but they had no interest in any scheme that Hyde might propose. Hyde's interest in the Russian was no concern of theirs.

For two dozen SLR or NATO FN rifles, for three launchers and their accompanying missiles, they would have raided the central barracks in Kabul where Petrunin had his quarters. But Hyde had no bribes, and therefore no leverage.

Hyde was cold. They had not even been invited into the man's lean-to hut of wood and corrugated iron, but had been required to squat on the ground outside its door. The afternoon was wearing away and the temperature dropping. The shadows across the refugee camp were long and the mountains beyond Parachinar were tipped with gold. It had been a drive of four hours from Peshawar, and the journey had been completely in vain.

"He repeats that Kabul has become a much more dangerous place," Miandad translated. Hyde tossed his head.

"I'm not asking him to go into Kabul," he replied. "You've already told him that. I want a plan of Petrunin's routine — I want to catch him away from Kabul, out in open country. God, you'd think these blokes had never set an ambush before!"

Mohammed Jan's eyes flickered at the angry frustration evident in Hyde's voice. His face, however, remained expressionless. He seemed to be patiently awaiting the departure of his uninvited guests. They had received tea, served by one of his daughters-in-law, he had listened to their arguments, and he had rejected them. Now only their departure was unaccomplished.

Hyde stood up and walked away. Miandad followed him, and the Australian turned on him.

"Can't that stubborn old bugger see—?" he began.

"You have given him no reason to help you."

"Christ — he hates Petrunin! What more excuse does he need?"

"You offer neither weapons nor help. You only want something from him. Something he is not prepared to give — lives."

"He's over there — the man with all the answers!" Hyde bellowed. He waved his arms. "The man with my life in his hands," he added more softly.

Miandad nodded. "And Sir Kenneth Aubrey's life, perhaps, and that of my old university teacher. I understand. But Mohammed Jan does not. Your concerns are not his — this is his concern, here…"

Miandad gestured around the refugee camp. It dropped slowly away from them down the hillside, not unlike the slow slide of rubbish down the slope of a tip. It had long since lost its appearance of temporariness and become permanent; the kind of village expected amid that scenery and so close to the border with Afghanistan. Its tumbled lean-tos and tents and hovels contained the remnants of perhaps three or four different Pathan tribes, predominant among them the tribe whose chieftain was Mohammed Jan. This was his territory, this heap of refuse flung into a narrow valley which led towards the border town of Parachinar and the Kurram Pass into Afghanistan. He ruled the place and its inhabitants autocratically, and he lived to kill Russians and Afghan troops. He was an exile, more certainly and with far more purpose than Hyde himself.

"All right!" Hyde snapped, turning his back on the camp, now beginning to soften into shadow. Cooking fires were already strengthening their glows, and cloaked women moved around them. Children and goats grumbled and shouted. In places, bare, sharp rock thrust through the snow. Armed men moved as if their only purpose was to be carriers of weapons. "All right — my life doesn't matter to him. But I can't help worrying about it, just a bit. If I can't do anything, then it's a question of sitting out the war — for the duration. Here, or somewhere like here."

Miandad turned to look once more at Mohammed Jan.

"They are as fierce and cruel and proud as people say they are," he murmured. "Also immovable. They simply live in another world from you. Your dislike of Russians is — well, rather like moonlight at midday. Not to be noticed beside their feelings. They are very good at hating — but on their terms, for their reasons."

"Let's get out of here."

"Very well. We should be safe, driving back to Peshawar. It is always possible we may not be, of course." Miandad smiled a small, grim smile. "Mm? Just one moment, I wonder what is happening over there…?"

"What—?"

"Listen. The old man talking to Mohammed Jan. I want to hear what he says."

Hyde moved away, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders slumped, eyes hardly seeing the grim reality of the camp. It did not interest or move him. He felt only his own predicament, and frustrated rage that these Pathans would not help him. He heard shouts, and saw men moving up the slope towards Mohammed Jan's hut. They passed him without taking notice. They carried long, ancient rifles and modern Kalashnikovs. All of them wore bandoliers of cartridges. Miandad was right; it was a different world. Its priorities, the depth of its hatreds and revenges, all were alien to the encounters of Hyde's professional life. He began to wonder what changes had been wrought upon the urbane, intelligent, professional persona of Tamas Petrunin since his engagement in this kind of war. For his part, there was a hint of relief in Mohammed Jan's refusal; as if he had escaped some unforeseen, unnerving danger.

Yet Aubrey intruded on his thoughts even at that moment; old, distressed, impotent. Hyde almost hated the loyalty that welled up in him, knowing its power.

"One of Mohammed Jan's returning raiding parties is in trouble, I think," Miandad said softly at his elbow, startling him. Men continued to brush past them, flitting like shadows towards their chieftain's hut. Hyde turned to watch them gather around Mohammed Jan. The man's voice was powerful as he began speaking.

"What did you say—?" Hyde asked absently.

"His eldest sons are leading a returning raiding party. The old man who arrived a few moments ago was a lookout, awaiting their return through part of the Kurram Pass. But they are pinned down and waiting for darkness — there are helicopters. And many of the party are dead, from the numbers the old man was able to see."

Hyde shrugged. "You told me," he said, "it's a different world. What can I do?"

Men were already moving off, towards the perimeter of the camp and the long shadows from the mountains. The snow-clad peaks gleamed in the setting sun. A sprinkling of lights showed the position of Parachinar. Mohammed Jan had disappeared.

"Come," Miandad said. "Perhaps you will see what this war is all about. Perhaps it will be a good lesson for you. We will follow Mohammed Jan and his men. You may see what your old acquaintance has learned of guerilla war." Miandad's teeth flashed whitely, but not in a smile.

Below the aircraft, the scene was colourless; grey and white. The waters of the Gulf of Finland were wrinkled like a shabby grey cloth, ending abruptly where the snow-covered shoreline of Helsinki became a sheet of white. Narrow lines of snow-ploughed roads and railway lines had been lightly traced, but the overwhelming the impression was of an uninhabited, hostile environment. Massinger turned away from the window at the recognition that the landscape and the sea lay below him like an image of his own state of mind; empty and somehow hopeless. He could not let go, he told himself once more, though, the precisely formed words in his mind echoed hollowly in a small, piping voice. Patriotism was ridiculous in him, an expatriate Bostonian, a cool-minded academic, especially the simple, emotional kind he seemed to be experiencing. Hyde did not have it, and he wondered whether even Aubrey possessed it. Somehow, he had a capacity for patriotism, like a capacity for love, and the object of that capacity could as well have been Afghanistan or the US or, as it plainly was, Great Britain. He found that he cared, almost despite himself, that his adopted country's intelligence service was being manipulated by the Soviet Union. It was intolerable.

Or was it merely his damnable sense of right and wrong? Was that at the bottom of his heated urge to solve the mystery, clear Aubrey, defeat his enemies? It might be, and he disapproved. It was a naïve view of his character, and he desired not to be naïve.

He had spoken to Margaret again, from the airport, looking out through tall windows onto a rainswept runway, a scene reduced to monochrome like the one below him now as the aircraft dropped towards Seutula airport. He had attempted to convince her that he was safe when the very reason he could not return to her, do as she asked and give it up, was because someone wanted him safely and incuriously dead. The conversation had been painful, pointless. The chasm was still there, merely emphasised by physical distance. She had settled into a routine of hatred towards Aubrey, totally believing in his guilt; it was an orthodoxy that nothing could soften or contradict. Therefore, while he aided Aubrey he was a heretic, and damned.

Yet he knew that her belief was tearing her in two, just as he was himself being pulled apart. He could not tell her he would never be safe, never, unless he could unravel the mystery — whatever the truth concerning her father and Kenneth Aubrey.

Lastly, he had told her — trusting her with his life, as he had wanted to do, felt he needed to do — that he would be coming back, that he would telephone, that he had to see her…

The telephone receiver in their flat had gone down on those protestations, on his pleading, on his need for her. The line had crackled with static and he had listened to the emptiness for a long time before putting down his receiver.

The rain had been cold on his face as he had crossed the tarmac to the Finnair flight to Helsinki.

The wing outside his window dipped, showing him the grey buildings and the runways of Seutula. The aircraft dropped its nose, straightened, then began its final approach, Massinger settled himself to thoughts of Phillipson and the immediate future.

In the growing darkness, Hyde caught glimpses of light-coloured cloth from blouses or turbans, even of dark shadowy forms against the snow, as the Pathan raiding party moved from rock to rock, from bush to stunted tree to straggling vegetation. On the ground, it was a scene in extreme slow-motion, the elapsed time so extended it was almost stilled. Above the defile of the narrow, knife-cut valley that cut through the border north of Parachinar, Russian helicopters moved like agitated insects; flies maddened and over-exerted by poison from an aerosol spray. Two kinds of time; patience and urgency, hunters and hunted. To Hyde, using night-glasses, it seemed that many were wounded, and by Miandad's guess the party was considerably reduced from that which had entered Afghanistan three days before.

The MiL gunships drove the valley again like airborne beaters of game, moving towards the high cleft in the rocks which concealed Hyde, Miandad and, a little away from them, Mohammed Jan and three or four of his trusted lieutenants; old, grey-bearded men with long, antique rifles. The noise from the helicopters was deafening. Then they turned, whirling as easily as dancers, the downdraught plucking at Hyde's hair and shoulders as the four MiL-24s moved away. Hyde could distinguish the 57mm rocket pods beneath their stubby wings and the four-barrel machine-gun in the nose of each aircraft as they turned no more than two hundred feet above him. He shivered.

"There," Miandad shouted above the din and its ricochet from the valley walls. "There!"

Hyde lowered his night-glasses, following Miandad's extended arm, focusing the glasses beyond the retreating gunships. The faint redness in the lenses swam and cleared. The scene had little colour; a clear, bloodless monochrome. As the focus sharpened, it was as if something had entered an arena; something making everything else of less significance. A pike in a pool. A presence.

The helicopter must have been daubed some garish colour, Hyde guessed. Certainly, it was not camouflaged like the gunships that now seemed to bob and curtsey their way towards it.

"Red — blood-red," Miandad murmured.

Hyde lowered the glasses for a moment, and looked at the Pakistani colonel. Miandad nodded. Hyde felt chilled, but he could not have explained his reaction. Petrunin—?

"Him?" he asked.

Miandad nodded. "Him. You will find his style — more flamboyant?" Miandad's teeth gleamed white in the darkness of the cleft of rocks.

Hyde raised his glasses once more, again adjusting the focus slightly. The command helicopter which contained Petrunin was moving up the valley, though very slowly, as if engaged in some courtship ritual with the four MiL gunships. Its speed decreased further as it reached its four heavily-armed courtiers.

Hyde moved the glasses down, twiddling the focus. He was prompted by an inexplicable fear and urgency. Below him, in the narrow river-bed, the Pathans seemed to be moving with a similar sudden speed. Wounded men were being handled more roughly, pulled and even dragged. Small, bent figures scurried ahead of them. It was dark now, and they were no more than half a mile from Hyde's vantage-point. They had already crossed the border, even though that crossing was meaningless. Hyde returned his gaze to the black air above the valley — some stars beginning to appear, falsely bright in the night-glasses — and the five helicopters. The four gunships hovered and paid homage in a slow circling dance about the command aircraft.

Hyde heard Mohammed Jan issue orders. Men below them began to move swiftly towards the oncoming party and its wounded. Away down the valley, the noise of the helicopters was magnified by the valley walls.

Then the group dissolved. The four gunships wheeled, came into line, began to beat up the valley again. The command helicopter lagged behind; the armed sportsman waiting for the game to be terrified into flight. It was sinister in the extreme, especially to Hyde, who knew the occupant of the red MiL-24. The rescuers scuttled and weaved and ran towards the returning party; flickering white and light-coloured patches or swift shadows. The four MiLs closed above them, their noise a fearful clatter from the rocks. Hyde watched.

He winced as small black shapes detached themselves from the bellies of each of the MiLs; strings of laid eggs. He followed them down, watched some bounce, roll, jump, split. None of them exploded. His shoulders and stomach relaxed. He turned to Miandad, glancing into his grim face. The Pakistani shook his head slightly. Hyde returned his attention to the moving Pathans. The two parties had met; wounded men received extra, urgent support. The tempo of their progress increased. The four MiLs banked and turned. More black eggs fell. There were no explosions. Hyde found it difficult to breathe; impossible to understand.

The retreating MiLs passed over the moving men, their noise towed behind them like a net. Almost silence, out of which the separate and distinct noise of the command helicopter emerged, closing at a height of no more than two hundred feet. Its racket banged back from the cliffs above the valley floor. Hyde saw raised faces, bobbing, quick-moving turbans. He could begin to distinguish bodies, forms, figures. The party, augmented by the rescuers, was no more than a quarter of a mile away from his vantage point. A faint, silver-sheened mist was rising in the valley. It shone as if with dew or an inner light.

Mist—?

It was thin, gauzy, hardly opaque. Yet it glowed falsely.

The red helicopter — now Hyde could distinguish patches of other shades on its nose and flanks. Shark's mouth—? Grotesque faces—? Animal heads—? He could not tell. Something occult, almost, about the thing, as if it was not a piece of airborne technology but something much older.

It hovered. Men ran, scattered, limped or fell. Hunched, scuttling, they moved through the sheen of silver which seemed to cling about them, rising from the floor of the valley to a height of no more than ten or twelve feet. Petrunin's helicopter hovered.

Miandad inhaled sharply. Hyde's shoulders hunched with tension, and his neck ached. The eyepieces of the night-glasses hurt him as he pressed them to his face. Men ran, closer now, almost…

A glowing spark seemed to drift down from the command helicopter, which immediately lifted to a greater height and banked fiercely away. The spark fell like a luminous insect, even a cigarette-end dropped from the helicopter.

The mist burst into flame. A tunnel of fire existed in an instant, a coffin of flame which contained every one of the moving men. Hyde could see them still moving, then standing, then twitching, then staggering, then falling. He could hear the roar of the ignited napalm or whatever it was. It was louder than the faint screams.

Then it began to die like the glow of a flashbulb; remaining on the retinae of the watchers still as a bright light, but dying into paleness, then shadow then darkness. Hyde had dropped the night-glasses. Heat beat against his face for a moment, then was gone and he felt chilled to the bone. A few ragged shots from the antique rifles in the rocks near him rang feebly out after the command helicopter. Hyde raised the glasses once more. He felt nauseous. Petrunin's helicopter was retreating backwards down the valley, its pilot and observation windscreens facing back towards the carnage, its air intakes above the windscreens like huge, flaring nostrils. It looked like something gloating over its success.

"I think there were more than fifty of them," Miandad murmured. "Including the wounded." Hyde turned to him, open-mouthed. "Including two of his sons." He nodded his head at the man beyond Hyde.

"I–I—" Hyde began, but he could say nothing more. His mouth remained open, as if expecting comment. What was it? What lurked at the back of his mind like a shadow? Some book, was it? Conrad — Kurtz? Heart of Darkness, that was it…

Petrunin had become — a savage. A murdering savage. 'The horror… the horror', Kurtz had said of his own decline into savagery; or the world's decline. Petrunin was Kurtz now. Once urbane, clever, far-seeing, professional; now a butcher, and one who gloated. The camp guard with the lampshades of Jewish skin…

Hyde retched, but nothing came.

There was a smell of burnt flesh, burnt people, reaching them from the floor of the valley, together with the faint aroma of chemicals. The black eggs he had seen must have burst open on impact, spreading the gas that he had been able to see as a mist. The spark dropped by Petrunin's helicopter had ignited the mist that by then clung to everything — especially to fleeing human skin and clothing. A twelve-foot high box of fire, a prison of flame.

Mohammed Jan was standing over himself and Miandad. He spoke to Miandad in Pushtu; perhaps two brief sentences. Hyde looked up into the chieftain's face, above the cradled Lee Enfield. The whites of his eyes gleamed, but Hyde could distinguish no expression on his face. Then he turned and was gone.

"Come," Miandad said. "He wishes to speak with us. Of the Russian."

Miandad got up and brushed off his trousers. Hyde rose weakly. Turning slowly, he could see Mohammed Jan descending to the floor of the valley, moving towards the charred remains of his two sons and fifty of his Pathan subjects. Hyde dragged the cold air into his lungs. There was a black, charred swathe through the valley; through the clean snow that blanketed the high pass. Hyde found himself shivering. He had always feared Petrunin. Now, he was terrified. He was in dark, turbulent water, entirely out of his depth.

Paul Massinger carefully stamped the snow from his shoes at the top of the steps leading to the low wooden cabin. After the cries of an unseen bird, more like a cough than a song, had faded, the taxi's idling engine behind him made the only sound. The forest of dark-boled, snow-laden pines seemed to crowd upon the cabin, threatening its temporary occupation of the small clearing. There, no more than twenty miles north of Helsinki, Massinger felt totally isolated, utterly without resources.

He tugged at the bellrope. The noise of the bell suspended near his head reminded him of his own schooldays; his turn to be the bell monitor. When the heavy sound died, he could hear no noise or movement inside the house. His breath smoked, the air was chilly against his face. The clearing was almost colourless; only black and white, trees and snow. He shivered.

He rang the bell again, then shrugged at the taxi driver, who seemed uninterested; or interested only in his meter. Phillipson had answered the telephone, had agreed to talk to him, albeit with some reluctance. They had agreed the time, but now -

Footsteps?

"Who is it?" a voice asked. Its evident anxiety, even through the wooden door, chilled Massinger more deeply than the temperature.

"Massinger — Paul Massinger… we talked on the telephone—"

"I've nothing to say to you, Mr Massinger."

Massinger heard his own surprised, quickened breathing in the silence that followed as if it were the noise of Phillipson's fear. The man was evidently afraid — had been frightened…

Massinger ignored the idea. "Mr Phillipson — it could be important," he said as levelly as he could, leaning confidentially towards the rough, unpainted surface of the door. A strong lock, he noticed. "It really could prove very important." He glanced behind him. No, the driver wouldn't hear, not with the engine running. "It has to do with the arrest of Kenneth Aubrey. I couldn't explain to you over the telephone line, but…" He breathed deeply. He could hear, above the engine of the taxi, the heavy, persistent silence of the small clearing and the forest around it. It intimidated. He continued in what seemed a small inadequate voice: "I'd like to explain it to you in detail — in private, Mr Phillipson." He felt like an unsuccessful salesman.

"I have nothing to say to you — please go away."

"Mr Phillipson — what's the matter? Can I help? You can certainly help me."

"Please go away!" The voice was high enough to be described as a shriek of protest. It was the voice of a child or a very old man. Someone bullied—?

"Mr Phillipson—"

"No!"

"Please—!"

"Go away!"

Massinger knew that the taxi driver was watching him, that he had heard Phillipson's desperation and terror. Yes, it was terror.

Phillipson had spoken to someone — someone in Helsinki, London, anywhere, it didn't matter — and that person had frightened him into complete silence. That someone might—

Might be behind the door, standing next to the frightened Phillipson, hand firmly upon his arm.

Massinger shivered. "Then be damned to you, Phillipson!" he called defiantly through the door before turning on his heel. The taxi driver's head flicked round and the man stared through his windscreen. Massinger stamped down the wooden steps, using his stick to make as much noise as possible. The fading afternoon light between the massed pines was like darkening smoke. The clearing seemed tiny, imprisoned. Massinger wanted to hurry, to urge the driver to accelerate, but he merely gestured wearily and said, "I'm afraid I'll have to change my plans. Let's go back to Helsinki."

The driver nodded and let off the brake. The car's rear wheels slipped slightly, then gripped with their studded tyres. Massinger did not turn his head to look back at the lonely cabin as they bounced down the rutted, snow-covered track towards the main road. No other tracks, he told himself. You fool. There was no one else there.

He wouldn't have talked. He was afraid for his life.

He folded his arms tightly across his chest and tried to relax into his seat. The taxi turned onto the main road. There was a hurry of traffic heading in the opposite direction, away from Helsinki. The afternoon darkened into evening, a red sun little more than a thumbnail on the horizon. The short winter day was already over. They passed through Haarajoki, then joined the moottoritie into Helsinki. The traffic thickened and headlights rushed at them out of the darkness.

Massinger gratefully allowed himself to doze, refusing to acknowledge that somehow he had run out of will, energy, even purpose. He hardly realised that the taxi left the motorway in the outer suburbs of Helsinki, diverted because of an accident and the subsequent traffic jam. Dimly, he glimpsed the grubby edges of the city; light industry's chimneys, low factory blocks on snowbound plots that still appeared scrubby, wire fences. Bungalows, tower blocks, two-storey houses invested the spaces between the chimneys and the factories. His eyes were open as they passed the circle of a concrete stadium, preyed upon by its floodlights.

He dozed again, to be woken by the coughing of the taxi's engine. It faded, caught again, then died and the taxi began to slow down. The driver steered it to the kerb, then turned to Massinger apologetically, shrugging his meaning rather than speaking. Massinger pursed his features and nodded impatiently. The driver got out and went to the taxi's boot. Massinger saw him waving a petrol can at the window, nodded again, and then watched him in the mirror as he began to trudge back the way they had come. Massinger had no idea when they had last passed a garage.

Massinger sighed. He had no desire to be left to his own devices in the back of a taxi in the suburbs of Helsinki. He was suddenly hungry, and he needed the satisfying narcotic of alcohol — half a bottle of good wine, if his hotel stocked any. He wanted something to stifle the procession of speculations regarding Phillipson that had paraded through his fitful dreams.

The driver had left his radio on after reporting his whereabouts and his delayed return. Its splutter of incomprehensible Finnish grated on his nerves at first, but he found a superficial reassurance in it after a while. It was normal; utterly normal. He settled further in his seat, pulling his overcoat closer around him. The car was growing cold without the heater.

There were houses and bungalows set back from the quiet road; mere slabs of darkness without feature, pricked or squared by lights. Occasionally, a car passed him. His body continued to register the rapid drop in temperature inside the car. The windscreen and the windows began to steam over. He almost dozed again.

A bleep from the radio and another burst of Finnish woke him. He stretched his eyes, and saw the car, parked without lights across the quiet road from him. A pale Mercedes. He could see nothing behind the dark windscreen, but he sensed people inside. It was parked on the main road, not in the service road, and he knew it belonged to neither resident nor visitor.

Then the voice on the radio began speaking in heavily-accented English. It did not seem addressed to him — he knew it was but the voice never made that clear— but it referred to him by name. It referred to the taxi, to the taxi's delay, to the American passenger of the taxi. It was the despatcher at the company office informing someone of the temporary fate of the taxi Massinger had hired. Nothing more or less than that. But the voice spoke in English which he knew he was meant to understand and fear. Involuntarily, he glanced across the road at the parked car. No lights, but then the flare of a lighter or match. Then nothing again.

There was another scratch of static from the radio, followed by mumbled messages, replies from the despatcher, all once more in Finnish; incomprehensible. He fumbled with the handle, opened the door and climbed out of the taxi. The air chilled him. He stood with his hand still gripping the handle; whether for security or support he was uncertain. The darkened Mercedes remained still and lifeless, gathering menace. Two cars passed in quick succession, and then the road was silent and empty once more. Massinger was aware of the tiny distance that separated him from the Mercedes.

He stood there for minutes which had no precise shape or division. Then the headlights of the Mercedes flicked on and off three times, and the engine fired. The car pulled out and away, heading north. Massinger was gripped by a fear that it meant to make a U-turn and come back for him, but its tail-lights eventually disappeared over a slight rise in the straight road.

Massinger realised he was shivering uncontrollably, with relief and with the lingering sense of menace. Someone was trying very seriously to frighten him — had frightened him. He opened the door of the taxi and slumped like a boneless old man into the back seat. His heart was racing. He felt nauseous, weak and unwell, and pressed his hand against his thumping chest as if to quiet it. He felt perspiration growing chill on his forehead and around the collar of his shirt. He no longer wanted to go on with it or have anything at all to do with the fate of Kenneth Aubrey.

CHAPTER SEVEN: The Zone of Occupation

If she kept her eyes closed, tightly closed for just one more moment, her father would walk out of that bright, wet haze where her tears refracted the sunlight through the branches of the old tree. It wouldn't just be Simmonds in the Bentley, or even Mummy sitting in the deep rear seat — it would be her father, smiling…

Margaret Massinger snapped upright in her chair, lifting her head, shaking it to remove the insidious past. Present, she reminded herself. Her attitude was still childlike, unevolved since the age of six, since times like the one she had just remembered, the end of the 1947 summer term at school. Even many months later, she still believed he would come. Mummy had made certain of that.

The body in the ruins that had been identified as that of Robert Castleford, in 1951, had been as much of a shock as if he had been murdered that day or the previous one. She had never been allowed to imagine that her father was dead or would not return — not for a single moment in five years. And he had indeed come back — as a hideous skeleton whose grinning, broken skull she had seen in grainy monochrome in a newspaper photograph. The placards had borne his name for days, the teachers and some of the older girls at school had reminded her by their looks and words for many weeks. Mummy had never coped with it. She had shut it out. To her, he would always, one philandering or amnesiac day, return to her; as he always had done.

After the sanatorium, the hospital, the mortuary, and finally the cemetery, her mother was buried next to the grinning skull of her husband. Margaret went to live with her paternal grandmother, where her relatives had, by degrees, explained her father to her. A warm man. Unfaithful, often. Everyone had assumed, without voicing the thought, that it had been a woman in Berlin who had been instrumental in his disappearance. Even after 1951, that assumption had continued. He had been killed by a jealous husband, another lover, by an enraged or abandoned woman.

It was her mother's image of him, however, that indelibly remained; the fictitious, idealised portrait of husband and father that so suited her years and her sense of loss. And it still continued plaguing and paining her.

Throughout her adult life, she had been able to comprehend her attitude to her father, explain it rationally to herself. Like stunted growth. Yet, like dwarfism, it was impossible to grow out of or beyond. She had only her child's veneration, nurtured in the hothouse atmosphere of her mother's quiet madness. Mummy had never admitted him to be less than a saint, a minor god. Never permitted any other view of Robert Castleford as her reason slipped beneath dark water.

And, after Mummy's death, grandmother had taken Robert Castleford up like a beacon with which to lead her granddaughter. Her memories of her father formed an enchanted circle from which she could not escape. Had never wanted to.

Handel was being played on the radio. There were crumbs of toast on the front page of The Sunday Times and on the lap of her dressing-gown. And the remains of a Valium sleep in her head, squeezing like a closing vice. She had never needed Valium since her marriage to Paul, and had only taken to it originally in the aftermath of a previous affair, when the pain and blackness of the first weeks had seemed like an echo of her mother's quiet madness. It was late. Almost midday.

The Insight article, a Sunday Times exclusive, became smudgy print once more. There was a damp spot where a tear had fallen. She still felt the first moment of shock at her father's picture, at Aubrey's picture, at an unidentified silhouette between the two snapshots, and at the headline, Menage a trois? Beneath that, even more pompously, The meaning of treason?

A warm man. Her grandmother had ignored her questions. Her beloved and only son's sexual peccadilloes were of no significance, and obviously allowable in such an able, brilliant, ambitious man. But, like dark jewels, sly and covert pieces of gossip had decorated her adolescence. His name had been associated with an abortion, an almost-expulsion from one school, desperate, ineffectual blackmail by one married woman, affairs…

Robert Castleford had attracted sexual indiscretion, and had always charmed it into harmlessness.

There was something else on the front page, too — something concerning 1974 and Germany, under the headline, Who else has been betrayed? She had begun to read it as a distraction — World Cup, Olympic massacre, advisory role for Aubrey, investigation, Gunther Guillaume… she could make little sense of it, and it possessed no interest for her. Her eyes and her mind and her memory continually returned to the Insight article. She could not bear to turn to page eighteen for a fuller account. There was sufficient on the front page — her father and Aubrey involved in some sordid sexual triangle in Berlin with the wife of a sought-after Nazi war criminal…?

Lurid, melodramatic — attested to by a former intelligence agent in Berlin, someone who knew the protagonists well. Now living in retirement on Guernsey, so the article claimed. Sexual jealousy, rage, quarrels, despair, hatred, violence.

She understood the emotions. Her own sexual experience confirmed that it was possible; emotions in riot and disorder, passion amounting almost to madness. Her father could have died in such circumstances. Aubrey could have had killed him over a woman. It was so much more convincing, so much more real than the world of callous treasons and betrayals, of politics and intelligence work and the Cold War. And it made more sense than person or persons unknown. The latter seemed like a senseless and more contemporary piece of violence such as the two and a half lines in the extreme left-hand column of the front page, accorded to an old woman's death at the hands of muggers.

Margaret's loss had begun in 1951, and she knew she had never recovered from it. It was as if she had contracted some childhood disease as an adult when the consequences were much more serious, even fatal. Her mother had deluded her for five years, and when the truth dawned and could no longer be avoided, her mother went slowly and utterly mad and killed herself. Margaret had found herself abandoned in a way she could not have imagined possible. Since that moment of the skull grinning from the newspaper, held in some German workman's hands, she had been completely and utterly alone. Rich eventually, by report beautiful, intelligent, possessed of energy and a capacity for work and enjoyment — but solitary, isolated, bereaved; alone.

Until Paul. Father-lover-husband Paul. Paul, in unholy, unforgiveable alliance with her father's murderer. After more than thirty years he had appeared and now had removed himself from her. For that, for the deception of hope followed by betrayal, she could never forgive him.

She let the paper fall to the carpet. She sniffed loudly, sitting erect — she remembered her mother doing the same, in the same stiffly defiant posture and now she realised that she, too, had been fending off painful realities. She would not cry again. She would, instead, finish her toast.

The Handel was solemn, like a pathway into grief, so she left her chair and switched it off. The transistor radio — which Paul never used to listen to music, always preferring his stereo equipment in the study — was on the dark Georgian oak sideboard. Apart from the small dining-table, it was the only piece of furniture in the alcove that constituted their breakfast area. The wood gleamed like satin, like a mirror. Her fingers touched it. It was carved, narrow-legged, three-drawered; a piece her father had acquired before the war. Almost everything — everything with any pride of place — had been collected by her father. She felt herself to be only another of his possessions, one of the prize pieces. Her father still owned her, even now, when she possessed his furniture and his money.

She returned to her chair. The toast broke and crumbled under the pressure of her knife. There was sticky marmalade on her fingers. Her eyes became wet—

The telephone rang.

She looked up from her plate, startled and almost as if rebuked for her poor table manners. She stood up and removed the extension receiver from the wall, flicking her hair away from her cheek before holding the telephone to her ear.

"Yes?" Only as she spoke did she realise it might be someone she did not wish to speak to, a friend appalled and considerate because of the article and whose sympathy was unwanted. Then she heard Paul's voice.

"Margaret — are you all right?" he asked breathlessly, as if she had been the one endangered.

"Paul—!" she blurted in reply. "Are you all right?" The Valium headache tightened in her temples. She had taken the tablets in her misery, but in her fear, too. He had talked of danger—

"Yes, I'm all right. I'm in London, I must see you…"

Her exhalation of relief, the trembling of her body, the lump in her throat all transformed themselves, the instant after she knew he was alive and safe, into an angry echo of her recriminations. Paul was still Aubrey's ally.

"Have you given it up?" she demanded.

"What—? I haven't found out the truth, if that's what you mean. Darling, can I come and see you, talk to you?"

"No, Paul—"

"Margaret, I have to!"

"You're in London, you must have seen—?"

"I have seen. It's nonsense — utter nonsense."

"It isn't!"

"You don't know Aubrey—!" Massinger protested. Stephens, the butler, opened the door, hesitated for an instant, then discreetly withdrew. Margaret could hear her own breathing, as well as the noise of a passing car. Then only the noise of the distance between herself and her husband. He was still speaking, still protesting Aubrey's innocence, but she could hear more clearly the whisper of the static and its measurement of distance. "You don't know Aubrey, darling, or you'd never believe that nonsense." There was a false, urgent attempt at jocularity; it was garish and ugly, like too much rouge on a wrinkled cheek. "You can't take that seriously…" Then, "Darling? Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here," she replied wearily, staring at the blank wall. "You're safe, you say? You'll be safe now?"

"No," he said softly.

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean. I'm in too deep now. Whether I like it or not, I'm in. I've aroused — interest." He sounded grim. There was a tone she had not heard before in his voice; something that belonged to his past, to that world he had once shared with Aubrey — the great, stupid, heroic, filthy game of spying. He was demanding she take it seriously. To him, it was far more real than the idea that people could kill for love, out of sexual jealousy or desire.

"Oh, God…" It was expressed in a shuddering sigh, as a protest.

The grinning skull. In her world, people could die for the change in their handbags or for the desire they could not satisfy or have reciprocated; in Paul's world, people died because they intrigued, they turned over stones, they desired the truth. The skull; her father's grinning bones.

"Let me see you," he pleaded.

"No!" She could not — yet she wanted him to be safe; above all, safe. "You must talk to Andrew Babbington — you must! Tell him you're in danger — please talk to him!"

"I can't — Margaret, I simply can't talk to anyone about this."

"Then leave me alone!" she wailed, thrusting the receiver away from her, clattering it onto its rest on the wall, leaning her head against it as her body slumped. The receiver joggled off and the telephone purred. Paul had evidently rung off. The tears coursed down her cheeks. She stared at her future mirrored on the blank wall of the alcove.

"I must ask you, Mr Hyde, if you have any suggestions as to how we are to capture your Colonel Petrunin?" Miandad's tone was reproving, even recriminatory.

"What the hell else could I do?" Hyde protested sullenly, I squatting on his haunches, his back pressed against the wall of the earthen-floored, chilly room. The pale blue of the sky was visible through the lattice-work of the broken roof. "You know damn well he had me by the short and curlies." Hyde stared into Miandad's face. It was evident that the Pakistani, too, was recollecting Mohammed Jan's words; his ultimatum. The Pathan chieftain had stood over them, tall in the firelight as their discussions ended, and he had spoken to Miandad in Pushtu. Hyde had recognised the trap in the Pathan's tone, even before Miandad translated.

"He will take you to the border, and across it. He will help you, show you where to find your Colonel Petrunin, and he will show you all the difficulties. In return for his help, you will guarantee to capture the Russian and to hand him over to the justice of Mohammed Jan and his tribe. This will pay for the deaths of his sons. It is the Pathan code of Pushtunwali, where the vendetta is the highest loyalty. Mohammed Jan asks you to choose — to go or to stay. Do you understand, Mr Hyde? Do you know what this means? If you want his help, you must promise him the capture of Petrunin."

All the while, Mohammed Jan had stood over them, immobile as a carved figure, the long Lee Enfield rifle with its gold inlay cradled in his arms. Hyde avoided looking at him, avoided too the circle of faces around the fire; Mohammed Jan's council of elders. Nevertheless, as soon as Miandad had finished his translation and given his warning, Hyde had replied.

"Tell him yes. I promise he will have Petrunin for his justice." There had been no other way. He had not dared to even hesitate.

To be trusted, to gain their help, he had had to commit himself at once. He wanted them to endanger themselves on his behalf. He had had to agree.

"I agree," Miandad said. "There was nothing else you could do. But, you have no idea of how to lay hands upon the Russian?"

Hyde turned to the Pakistani. "Look," he said, "there's you and me and a gang of brave nutters. They're prepared to stay inside Afghanistan until the job's done. For the moment I've managed to stall them with the idea of an ambush." He grinned mirthlessly. "They'll get some new guns and who knows — we might get some hard news of Petrunin."

"You're an optimist, Mr Hyde."

"Am I? I'm bloody trapped, that's what I am, sport."

"Perhaps."

"At least they'll wait. Wait until Petrunin comes out to play."

"I know much about your Russian. He is unlikely to allow himself to be captured. By helicopter, he has at least two heavily-armed gunship escorts, by road he travels in a heavy convoy. He is virtually impregnable. He spends a great deal of his time at Soviet army headquarters when he is in Kabul, and the rest of the time at the embassy — very little time at the embassy, actually. You see, he knows how much he is hated, how deep the desire to punish him is."

"All right, all right…" Hyde sighed. "I know we're in the shit. Thanks for jumping in with me."

"There are obligations."

"To Aubrey you mean?"

"And to men who served with me. It is not only Pathans who have been burned by your Russian's napalm." Miandad's face was grim. Hyde lowered his head, looking at the baggy trousers and sheepskin jacket that were part of his disguise. He rubbed his unshaven skin and sighed.

"I realise now how you knew what would happen." He looked at Miandad again. The Pakistani, similarly disguised as a Pathan warrior, was softly rubbing his chest and shoulders. Hyde remembered that the man had been discreet, almost coy, when they had changed into their Pathan costumes. Burned—? Hyde left the subject of Miandad's experiences in Afghanistan, but he could not ignore Petrunin. "How has it happened?"

"The Russian?" Miandad shrugged. "It is not a nice war here. Not cricket — not even ice hockey." Miandad smiled. "Your Russian was sent here in disgrace, was he not?" Hyde nodded. "He is a very bitter man. This is a war of bitterness. It was easy for him, I suspect. It is always easy to degenerate." Miandad shivered and stretched out his hands to the small fire around which they crouched.

They were alone in the ruin of the Afghan fort. They had crossed the border before daybreak, a party of thirty picked men, all well-armed and provisioned. After miles of high, snowbound passes they had come down, before midday, to this abandoned fort, trudging through a pine forest to reach its shelter. A bitter wind had searched their clothing throughout the journey. Hyde had reached the fort exhausted and chilled to the bone. He had eaten ravenously, then slowly thawed in front of a small fire. The wind moaned and shrieked around the partially-ruined walls and barracks and stables. Mohammed Jan had seemed to find some source of satisfaction in the Australian's weariness. Then the Pathans had left, to scout the road between Kabul and Jalalabad.

"I'm getting stiff," Hyde announced. "Let's walk."

They left, passing through other rooms that might once have been offices — a broken chair, sagging wooden shelves — until they stood in the main courtyard of the fort. The snow-laden pines stretched away up the mountain slope until they petered out at the treeline. The scene was almost colourless; hostile and lonely.

They paced the courtyard of hardened earth, ridged by old cartwheels or the ancient wheels of gun carriages. Hyde flapped his arms against his sides for warmth.

"It is a deadly game, my friend," Miandad said after a long silence filled only by the wind and their stamping footsteps.

"I know that."

"He will hold you responsible if you do not—"

"I know that!" Hyde snapped. He halted, turning to Miandad. "My life isn't worth a spit anywhere in the world unless I get hold of Petrunin and get the truth from him. In those circumstances, mate, it's easy to make extravagant promises and put your balls in the scales!"

"Very well. But, how will you prevent Mohammed Jan from putting your Russian to death immediately he is captured — always supposing he is captured alive in the first place."

"Shoot the bugger, if I have to — Christ, I don't know! Just hope, I suppose. Or threaten to kill Petrunin myself unless they let me talk to him."

"And how will you get Petrunin to talk?"

"Christ knows! Offer him a way out? Let's face it, some bugger's going to be disappointed with the outcome — let's just hope it isn't us!"

"Very well."

"You'll be safe?"

Miandad nodded. "Oh, yes. Mohammed Jan will not harm me. You see, I represent the possibility of guns and ammunition, and shelter."

"God, I wish I knew what the hell to do!"

"Perhaps you should ask Allah for inspiration? Or your own god?"

"Who? Janus of the two faces? Some hope."

"My friend, do not despair. If we find a patrol, and we can capture some of the Russian soldiers, they will talk easily enough. They will know Petrunin — he is a legend among them, one of the few they have. They will know, perhaps, his movements and his timetable. Then an idea may come to you."

Hyde looked up at the climbing pines and the white mountains against the pale sky. He could not shake off his abiding sense of the alienness of this country. His mission was doomed to failure. Had he not been desperate himself, he would never have considered it. He would never have crossed the border.

A voice called out in Pushtu. They turned swiftly, Hyde bringing the Russian Kalashnikov to bear. A turbanned Pathan waved urgently to them from the main gate.

Miandad said, "They've found a patrol. We are ordered to make haste." He looked at the sky. "No more than two hours of daylight left. The patrol ought to be returning to Jalalabad or Kabul very soon. Come, my friend. Let's hope there are plenty of new guns, even a rocket launcher. Mohammed Jan will be mollified if the haul is a good one."

"Then there is nothing else you can do — you must get out of it." Shelley's face was grim as Massinger looked up. He had been staring at Hyde's telephone ever since he had replaced the receiver. He could still hear, more stridently and more affectingly than any of Shelley's prognostications and fears, Margaret's almost hysterical refusal to see him, to believe him, to care what happened to him. He was numbed by the fact that she could abandon him.

"How can I?" he asked bleakly.

"How can you? Drop it — drop the whole thing, man!" It was evident that Shelley was pleading with him for their mutual safety. The tortoiseshell cat roused itself, as if the electricity of their fears disturbed and shocked its fur. Then it settled back into its hollow in the sofa next to Massinger. "You'll have to bluff your way out."

"You've already thought this through, haven't you?" Massinger asked. He made it sound like an accusation, and Shelley lowered his eyes as he replied.

"Yes, I have." He looked up again, defiantly. Massinger thought perhaps his eyes had caught the front page of The Sunday Times and he had been reminded that he was abandoning Aubrey. His old chiefs fate seemed settled, inexorable. Perhaps there was nothing that could be done.

He squashed the thought like an irritating insect, half-afraid of it as of some exotic, corrupt sexual temptation. He could not simply abandon Aubrey. He shook his head. "I can't."

"You have to! Look, I've given this a lot of thought. Whoever is running this show has closed all the doors against you. Good God, don't you realise that what happened in Helsinki means that someone knew what I'd been doing almost before I did it. I made a couple of telephone calls, I met you in Calais — and it's as if we carried placards announcing our intentions." Shelley's voice was urgent and afraid. "It's time to face the truth. There's nothing we can do. We can't keep anything hidden from them. Sooner or later, they're going to get tired of us, like buzzing flies, then — splat! You, me — families…" Shelley's voice tailed off.

Massinger patted the young man's knee roughly, and said in a low voice: "Even if I did, how could I make them believe me?" He felt almost as if Aubrey could hear every word he spoke. Yet Margaret remained the light at the end of the tunnel. She would see him, come back to him, let him come back.

"It's easy!" Shelley said quickly. Massinger recognised that the conspiracy was agreed between them. "You have to convince them that you're interested in the truth of this—" His finger tapped the newspaper. Aubrey's face stared at them. Shelley's damp fingertip became smudged with print from the picture and the headline — The meaning of treason? Shelley rubbed his finger on his denims. "Don't remain in hiding — don't just skulk here. Go to Babbington, even, and ask him all about this. Ask to talk to this man living in Guernsey who's quoted here — what's his name, Murdoch? Convince them that all you're interested in, all you've ever wanted to discover, is whether or not Aubrey murdered Castleford. If you can do that, you can walk away from this mess." Shelley's voice ended on a low, seductive note.

Massinger knew it would work. Babbington would accept it, and so would Margaret. The Sunday Times had opened a route to the border of the wild country in which he had found himself. He could be across that border by nightfall; safe.

"And the traitor?" Massinger murmured.

"Forget him."

"But we know he exists!" Massinger began.

"And we can do nothing!" Shelley snapped at him. "We have to stay alive. I want to stay alive, anyway. So do you, I suspect."

"But—"

"You don't know where to begin. You have nothing to offer, no influence, no power, no knowledge, and no leverage. You can't even protect yourself. Give it up!"

He could be dining with his wife that evening. He could be holding her in his arms within a matter of hours.

Safe. The route to the border was open. Safe—

"And you?" he asked.

"I'll ring this man in Guernsey — on your behalf. A halfhearted final gesture, for form's sake. Then I can go back to the office with a clean sheet." Two spots of shame had appeared on Shelley's cheeks, but it was evident that he was determined. He had abandoned Aubrey and was already learning to live with the amputation of a small part of his conscience. "As for you," he added, "why not go and see one or two of these people I've dug up who were in Berlin in '46? It will make for conviction, mm?" Shelley picked up some sheets of paper from the coffee-table. "Yes, why not? See one or two of them, and then you call Babbington. Ask to see him — seem to want to be convinced. Sound as if you want to believe everything you read in the papers." Shelley's forced jocularity was evidently acted. He was assuming his new role, and Massinger desperately wanted to do the same. "When you've spoken to Babbington, all you have to do is convince him that you're satisfied. Aubrey killed Castleford. They have to be made to believe that you beheve it. Who knows — perhaps the old man did, in a fit of passion—?"

"Don't be stupid!"

"Sorry."

There was a very long, strained silence. Massinger suspended all thought, almost ceased to breathe. Cross the border, he told himself again and again.

"Very well," he said eventually. "It's the only way. I agree."

As Shelley sighed with relief, Massinger encountered an image of Aubrey's old and shrunken form in silhouette at the end of a long, poorly-lit corridor, abandoned and alone. Massinger clenched his fists and turned his thoughts forcibly to his wife.

It is ludicrous, Aubrey told himself, that I should be providing my interrogator, just as he is at his most dangerous, with a roast pheasant Sunday lunch accompanied by a bottle of good claret. He watched Eldon squash a portion of peas onto his fork and raise them to his lips before he refilled the man's glass from the silver-necked ship's decanter. Aubrey watched his own hand intently as the wine mounted in Eldon's glass. It was steady. He had absorbed the shock of the Insight article long before Eldon had telephoned and been invited to lunch. Mrs Grey considered their dining together an act of madness or heresy, but had prepared one of her best lunches, with apple tart to follow. Aubrey had needed the normality of the occasion, false though it was, to assist the drama of casual indifference and easy denial that he knew he would have to perform for Eldon.

Within himself, controlled but evident, the turmoil of an approaching crisis brewed like a tropical storm. The subject of Clara Elsenreith had arisen, and Aubrey knew they would be looking for her. He also knew that he had to get to her first, at whatever risk.

"She seems to have quite disappeared," Eldon was saying. "Ah, thank you, Sir Kenneth. As I said, an excellent claret."

"I'm sure you regard it as a great pity that I have not continued the liaison until the present day," Aubrey remarked. He sliced neatly at the thigh of the pheasant, placing the meat delicately between his lips. He was well into the role, and was confident he could play it to the end of the interview; despite his increasing weariness, his growing desperation, and the new and sudden fear that he had to make a move. The journal that Clara had kept for him for thirty-five years must be destroyed. Now, it could well constitute the last link in the chain they would use to bind him. They felt they had a motive now menage a trois, he thought with disgust — and his confession to Castleford's murder was in the hands of the woman in the case. Find her and they would find his confession.

Eldon's eyes studied Aubrey. He smiled thinly. "At least, Sir Kenneth, you admit the liaison itself."

"Of course. Murdoch was not the only one to know of it."

"And this woman was Castleford's mistress, too?"

Aubrey's face narrowed as he pursed his lips. "She was not."

"But—" Eldon's fork indicated the room, which somewhere contained the newspaper article and Murdoch's assertions.

"Murdoch assumed the fact."

"As did others?"

"Naturally."

Eldon's brow creased. "I wonder why that should be," he mused.

"Because Castleford's reputation in such matters was well-known. Because he — actively pursued Clara Elsenreith."

"You had, then, no cause for sexual jealousy? You were, in fact, the victor, the possessor of the lady's favours and affection?" Eldon's tone was light, sarcastic, stinging. The slighting of the affair, of the woman in the case, was quite deliberate.

"I was," Aubrey replied levelly.

"We shall have to ask the lady for corroboration."

"When you find her," Aubrey remarked incautiously.

"Is there any reason you should hope we do not?" Eldon asked sharply, laying down his knife and fork.

Aubrey shook his head, sipped his claret. "None whatsoever."

"You have no idea where she can be found?"

"As I indicated — the lady belongs very much to an earlier part of my life. An episode I thought long closed," Aubrey added with unpretended bitterness. "I have no idea where you might find her." An elegant apartment opposite the Stephansdom, above a smart shoe shop, his memory confessed, almost as if he had spoken the words aloud. He sipped at the claret again. He could clearly envisage, without concentrating, the rooms of the apartment, much of the furniture and many of the ornaments, the decoration of the drawing-room and the guest bedroom where he had occasionally slept. Clara owned the lease of the shop below the apartment. It sold shoes produced by the small companies in which she had an interest in France and Italy.

Thank God, he told himself, that she never called her fashion house by her own name, married or maiden. Thank God for that, at least.

Castleford had pursued her, yes. Castleford had become insanely jealous when he found her drawn towards another man.

He felt himself cheated by Aubrey, insulted by the poorer physical specimen's success, by the junior man's triumph. He had pleaded with Clara, attempted to coerce and blackmail, to bribe — to possess. Castleford needed to possess women, to use and enjoy them, then put them to one side like empty bottles when he had done with them. Clara had loathed him, though Aubrey was certain that, for her own advantage, she would have become Castleford's mistress had he not appeared on the scene. Clara would have had to look after herself. From Castleford she could have obtained papers, food, money, clothes, protection, safety. Instead, Aubrey had supplied those things.

Yes, Castleford had been jealous. At first Aubrey had been jealous of Castleford, suspecting a success the man had not at that time enjoyed. But sexuality was not the motive for Castleford's murder.

No, not sex, nor money, nor power…

"You seem thoughtful, Sir Kenneth?"

Damn—

"Not at all. More claret?" Eldon demurred, covering his glass with his palm. "Then I'll ring for Mrs Grey. We'll have the dessert."

I must save myself. Only I can save myself, Aubrey's mind recited to the tinkling of the silver bell in his hand. I have to get to Vienna. I have to destroy that stupid, stupid journal, before…

He looked calmly into Eldon's face.

Before he sees it!

"Come on, Mike — you can tell me how you got onto this chap Murdoch — surely?" Shelley's voice was strained with bluff jollity.

"Look, Pete— I told you. The man came to us. You know it happens all the time."

"And you believed him?" Shelley, sitting on his sofa, the receiver pressed to his cheek, watched his daughter patiently rolling a growing snowball around the garden. Alison, as if she felt the child required close personal protection, was standing in her fur coat, arms folded tightly across her breasts, intently watching their daughter.

"You don't think we didn't check, old boy?" the jocular, superior, knowing voice came down the line. It was as if the voice mocked not simply Shelley's naïvety but also the innocence of the scene through the bay window. The new patio doors seemed suddenly very insecure; too much glass. "No—"

"Well, we talked long and hard to him. We even cleared it with your people. Not that we had any need to, but we did. They gave us a couple of other names. Common knowledge, old boy. Aubrey and Castleford at it like hammer-and-tongs for months, both trying to crack this Nazi widow. We couldn't trace her, more's the pity. I can't imagine your guv'nor having that much of a yen for a bit of the other, can you?" Mike laughed.

"No," Shelley replied ruefully. He trusted Mike. He was a journalist SIS had used before, fed or pumped as the need arose. He could be trusted. And he would probably pass on the fact of Shelley's enquiry. And his acceptance of the answers he was given. With luck, Shelley was beginning his professional rehabilitation. I just made a few enquiries for Massinger's sake, he thought with disgust. "You believe it, then?" he added. "I do. Don't you?"

"I suppose so. God, it takes some swallowing, though."

"The most unlikely people can get steamed up over sex, old boy. Your old boss is human after all — I think." Mike roared with laughter again. He was beginning to irritate Shelley; as if the amusement was directed at his evident disloyalty. "I suppose so."

"Any chance of the first hint when they charge him?"

"I — yes, of course." Shelley felt sweat break out along his hairline. He hadn't even thought of it— Charges. They'd be charging the old man any day now. "Yes, yes — I'll be in touch," he added. "See you."

He put down the telephone hurriedly. It was growing dark in the garden. Suddenly, he did not want his wife and daughter outside any longer. He crossed swiftly to the patio doors beside the bay window. The Labrador arranged on the rug in front of the fire opened one hopeful eye. Shelley slid back the glass doors. "Come on, you two," he called with false jollity. Alison immediately studied him.

"Just a moment, Daddy," his daughter called, intent upon the snowball, almost as tall and heavy as herself. She heaved at it and it moved towards the rosebed.

"Careful," he cautioned. Oh, come in, his thoughts pleaded. "Close the doors," Alison instructed. "You'll let all that expensive heat out."

He slid the doors closed. "Oh, shit!" he bellowed. He'd established his alibi. Murdoch in Guernsey had reluctantly answered the telephone, spoken to him, confirmed his claims in the paper. Mike, author of the Insight article, had apparently satisfied his curiosity. To all intents and purposes, Shelley was satisfied with the motive for Castleford's death and the evidence for Aubrey's guilt. He had surrendered, made himself harmless; defused himself as a threat to whoever—

He was miserable in his shame. He had abandoned Aubrey for good.

The main highway between Kabul and Jalalabad lay below them, twisted like rope between tumbled, snow-clad cliffs. It seemed to writhe like a living thing. A snow-plough had passed along it since the most recent fall. On the other side of the road, between its embankment and the grey skein of the river which looked as tarred and gravelled as the road itself, the snow-cloaked remains of a burnt-out personnel carrier had returned to innocence. Dawn slid softly down the face of the opposite cliffs.

The patrol had spent the night in a bombed, deserted village rather than risk an ambush in the dark on the highway. Scouts had reported, almost gleefully, the restlessness and the inability to sleep as well as the numbers, vehicles and arms of the patrol. Mohammed Jan had decided to wait until dawn, until the patrol returned to the highway to make its way back to Kabul. The Pathans were now hidden on both sides of the narrow highway, high up in the cliffs. From his vantage point, Hyde was aware of no more than half a dozen of them, and he felt they were competitors in a race. He did not trust any of them to leave a Russian soldier alive for long enough to be questioned. He needed an officer, preferably. But, anyone—

If he was quick enough. Even then, all he could offer the man in exchange for information was a quick bullet rather than execution by mutilation. Thus his tension as he crouched in the rocks. Miandad beside him was, apparently, more diffident and relaxed. Below them, almost directly below, rocks and larger boulders had spilled across the highway, effectively blocking it to traffic. A similar small landslide had been prepared further back down the highway, to block any retreat.

The dark air was bitterly cold. Hyde felt as if he had never been warm since he had boarded the old military transport in Karachi. The cold sunlight slid further down the cliffs. A mirrored light flashed a signal towards their position. Mohammed Jan stood up and waved in reply.

"Less than half a mile away now," Miandad murmured. Hyde merely nodded. Miandad studied the lightening sky above them. "I wonder whether they will send a helicopter from Kabul?"

"Do they usually?"

"A year ago, every patrol had a helicopter escort. But now — who can say? This part of the country has been quiet for most of the winter. The Russians assume they control this highway. Perhaps there will be no helicopter — until we have finished our business, anyway." Miandad smiled, then unconsciously flicked at his moustache, parodying a British officer.

Hyde returned his attention to the road. Less than three minutes later, a green-painted BTR-40 scout car rounded the nearest bend, moving with what appeared to be exaggerated caution. Its small turret and finger-pointing machine gun swivelled from side to side. The vehicle seemed to possess a jumpy tension of its own. Then two caterpillar-tracked BMP infantry carriers, squat and green and heavily armoured, appeared behind the scout car. Each of them was armed with a missile launcher and a 73mm gun. There would be eight men in each, all capable of firing with the aid of periscopes while the vehicle kept moving. The red stars on the flanks of the vehicles were hardly visible in the slow dawn. A second scout car brought up the rear of the small column.

Hyde shivered with cold and tension. Yet, however much he reminded himself of the armour and armaments of the men and the vehicles that contained them, he could not avoid the impression that this slow-moving patrol was afraid and vulnerable. Four armoured vehicles — two missile launchers and two heavy cannon mounted on the BMPs, two machine guns on the scout cars, sixteen to twenty Kalashnikov AKMs inside the four vehicles, perhaps four or five handguns, grenades, perhaps one or two machine guns like the PK or the RPK…

The catalogue meant nothing. It could not prevent those Russian conscripts from being afraid every moment they crouched behind their armour, jogging and bucking back to Kabul. Thirty Pathans with old rifles and stolen Russian arms and American or British or Czech or Russian grenades posed a far more potent threat. The terrain and the fanaticism both belonged to them.

The leading scout car began to slow, well down the road from the small, deliberate landslide. At that moment, the officer in command of the scout car would be operating on assumptions. In that situation, and with his nerves, he would assume that the landslide was deliberate and that it was intended as part of an ambush. Perhaps less than a minute to decide, to report over the radio—?

The scout car turned awkwardly on the highway and headed back towards the two BMPs. The trailing scout car also turned, making for the bend in the road. Hyde imagined that the patrol had already summoned a helicopter from Kabul, less than thirty miles west of their position; perhaps ten or fifteen minutes flying time for a MiL-24 gunship.

The two BMPs began to turn very slowly, shunting back and forth on their caterpillar tracks, the stationary scout car near them like a sheepdog. Nothing else appeared to move on or near the highway. Hyde heard a distant rumble that might have been thunder or the echoes of a shot. Presumably, the second landslide. His hand involuntarily jumped with nerves as it rested on the chilly plastic stock of his stolen Kalashnikov. The remains of a sticker — he hadn't noticed it before, but it was lighter now — was still affixed to the gun. It was yellow, had been round, and displayed the torn remains of a smiling cartoon face. The Cyrillic command to smile had been partially torn away. The image disturbed Hyde, adding to the spurious but intense nerves he experienced as a spectator of the almost innocent scene below.

A figure moving, crawling in the roadside ditch—? He could not be certain. The second scout car, the one that had headed back down the highway, now seemed to flee back into sight, a spray of slush rising at the side of the road as it cornered at speed. Hyde's hand covered the torn, smiling sticker and he leaned slightly forward, drawn to the opening scene of the drama which was as inevitable as a previously witnessed tragedy. He saw from the corner of his eye that Miandad's body had adopted the same posture. He had no doubts. He's been told the ending of this play.

A figure, yes—

A brown-robed Pathan slipped on all fours onto the grey ribbon of the road, rolled something, then ducked back into the drainage ditch. Hyde held his breath. He was captive and captivated. Four seconds, then the grenade exploded beneath the scout car. Flame billowed around its flanks and wheels, but died almost at once. The scout car appeared undamaged, apart from scorch-marks on its olive-drab paintwork. Hyde lowered his binoculars in disappointment. Miandad nudged him, and pointed.

Dandelion clocks. He focused his glasses. Dandelion clocks. They floated, orderly, delicate, innocent, down from the lowest rocks towards the vehicles on the road. One BMP had turned, the other straddled the highway while undoubted and furious radio contact continued between all four vehicles. The trap was dawning upon them. The grenade had been some kind of signal—? Perhaps just a piece of bravado.

The dandelion clocks—

Suddenly, he knew what they were. Soviet RKG anti-tank grenades, hand-thrown and capable of penetrating five inches of armour. The BMP armour was 14mm thick, that of the scout cars 10mm. The white patches which had reminded him of dandelion clocks were the small stabilising drogue parachutes which ensured that after the grenade was thrown, its shaped charge struck nose-first.

One of the BMPs launched a Sagger missile with a bright, spilling flame. Rock and snow and dust flew away from the suddenly obscured hillside above the road; above the Pathans, too. Boulders began to roll towards the lower slopes. The echoes of the noise deafened Hyde.

The first dandelion clock struck, then the second. One detonated on the surface of the road, the other on the trailing scout car's back. The armour erupted like a boil, then split as if the vehicle had been unzipped. Something staggered from the ruin, ablaze, and fell to a whisper of rifle fire. Hyde could not hear screaming at his safe height. Other grenades struck one of the BMPs. Flame, noise, the tearing of armour. Hyde had never realised the hideousness of the noise of splitting armour-plating. It seemed to cry out on behalf of the occupants of the troop carrier.

Another Sagger was launched by the undamaged BMP. The cannon atop the first troop carrier also opened fire. Rock and hillside boiled and shattered. The narrow gorge filled with smoke and raging noise. The surface of the grey river was pattered into distress by falling rock and metal. Uniformed men running — others lying still, sprawled down the sides of vehicles or by the caterpillar tracks or on the slush and grey tar of the highway. Hyde could hear, though he could no longer distinguish, the firing of both 73mm cannons from the BMPs. Flame lit the smoke and dust cloud from within — flickering flames from the shooting, steadier flame from one of the scout cars, burning.

The roar of the hillside being torn by another missile, the chatter of a machine gun. Then the noise of only one of the two cannons and a newer, brighter source of light within the cloud of smoke and dust.

Miandad nudged him, leaning his head towards him. "It is time for us to make a move!" he yelled. "Otherwise, there will be no one left alive to question!"

Hyde blanched as he looked down into the boiling, dense cloud garishly lit by flame. He could not, for a moment, shake off the distance between himself and the action below. Then he nodded. Together, they scrambled down the loose-surfaced slope, entering the cloud of smoke and dust. Hyde wound his scarf around his face, coughing violently, his eyes watering. He could see Miandad only as a shadow beside him.

"Where?" he shouted, inhaling a mouthful of acrid smoke. He could smell burning petrol, cordite, and flesh. He clambered out of the ditch — he could hear the screaming now — blundered against a Pathan tribesman, and then he was on the road, crunching over the rubble of metal and rock.

"This way!" Miandad grabbed his arm and pulled him to his left. Hyde followed the Pakistani. A gout of flame shot up somewhere ahead of them and he felt its heat against his skin. Other Pathans slipped past them, a uniform blundered near, but it was alight and Hyde ignored it. Only minutes, and he began to think it was already too late. "The other side of the road, yes?" Miandad shouted against his ear. Hyde nodded.

The leading scout car was wrecked and on its side. A body spilled out of its forward trapdoor like a leakage of fuel. Miandad bent by the meaningless form, then looked up. Hyde could see his eyes gleaming, their whites intense.

"What—?" he yelled.

"Some got out — some must have got out!"

"Where?"

A burst of machine-gun fire from close to them whined off the overturned body of the scout car.

"There!" Miandad yelled.

A deep, rumbling explosion, followed by the clatter of hot fragments and slivers of metal on the road around them. One piece sliced and burned Hyde's sheepskin jacket, another scorched his hand. One of the BMPs had exploded. There couldn't be many left now. A turbanned Pathan staggered against the scout car and fell on top of Miandad. The Pakistani almost fastidiously pushed the body away. In a moment of silence, Hyde heard someone screaming like a rabbit. Then the machine gun opened up again, raking the road away to their left. Evidently, the officer who commanded it had decided that anyone still likely to come out of the maelstrom of smoke and dust would be an enemy. And if not, better to take no chances just for the sake of one or two raw conscripts.

"Come!"

Miandad moved away to the right and Hyde followed him in an awkward crouch, moving as swiftly as he could. The edge of the road appeared, grey changing to earthen brown sand and filthy slush. Then they were in the wet ditch, the snow soaking through Hyde's baggy trousers and sleeves.

To his left, Hyde could see — in the moment when he heard its renewed chatter — the flickering flame at the muzzle of the light machine gun. There was little other firing now. Sufficient lack of concussive noise to make movement audible; screaming audible, too.

Dying men everywhere—

Close.

Hyde grabbed Miandad's arm in a panic of fear. Ahead of them, no more than twenty yards away, the machine gun had stopped firing. The cloud, too, seemed to thin. Struggling men. The group who commanded the machine gun had been found, were being killed—

Hyde ran, Miandad a pace behind him, both of them blundering along the uneven, rock-strewn ditch. A blank-eyed face stared up at them from the edge of the road. Hyde did not even register consciously that there was little that remained of any human shape below the shoulders. Then he was among the struggling group. Someone knocked him aside. He saw a military bayonet flicker like silver, then a curved knife at its business. Miandad blundered against him, then seemed to dart to one side. Hyde's head moved from side to side in growing desperation. He was looking for something as small, as insignificant, as collar tabs or shoulder boards. He needed an officer.

Miandad was struggling with something on the ground, dragging it along the ditch, resting it against the roadside slope. He bent to lift the unmoving legs, and as he did so a Pathan emerged from the thinning cloud, rifle at his side, knife in his hand. He hesitated only for an instant as he saw Miandad struggling with the Russian's limp legs, and then he raised his knife. Hyde did not know whether the man assumed Miandad was being attacked — a fellow Pathan — or whether he did not care. He had time only to move a single pace and swing the butt of the Kalashnikov. Its rigid plastic stock struck the Pathan just above the left eye, and he fell away from Miandad and the Russian, dropping his knife as he did so.

"Quickly!" Miandad demanded, looking up.

Visibility was improving quickly now. Hyde could see perhaps a dozen Pathan tribesmen moving among the wreckage and the bodies. He saw one Russian soldier's body buck and twist as his hands were cut off. The man did not scream because he was already unconscious.

"Help me get this one away into the rocks!" Miandad added.

Hyde shouldered his rifle, and together they dragged the Russian — collar tabs, young unconscious face, bruise on his temple, slight burns on his cheeks and jaw, officer! — out of the ditch and down the slope towards the river.

They splashed through the shallow water, the Russian officer supported between them, and gained the cover of the rocks at the foot of the steep cliffs. Hyde's breath was coming in huge gulps, and he was bent almost double, resting on his knees as if vomiting. Miandad's hand rested on his arm. The sky above was pale and blue. They were out of the dust and smoke, which was now dispersing, exposing like the retreat of some tide the wreckage on the shore of the highway.

Miandad pointed towards a clutter of broken rocks.

"Help me get him over there," he said. Hyde realised he was no longer shouting. There was no longer any need. The gorge echoed now only with screaming of a decreasing intensity and horror, and the occasional rifle shot. A burst of startling fire as some ammunition exploded, then only the screaming, which had begun to sound more like the noises of carrion birds than those of dying or mutilated men. Hyde nodded. "You don't have much time," Miandad added, tossing his head back towards the road.

"OK. Let's go."

They dragged the Russian, who groaned once in a boyish hurt way, towards and behind the rocks. They were perhaps seventy or eighty yards up the slope and a hundred yards from the road.

"Work quickly!" Miandad commanded, tilting a silver flask to the young Russian's lips. The boy coughed, and his eyes opened.

Opened and became fearful at the same moment as he saw Hyde's turbanned head in front of him.

"Be quiet!" Hyde snapped in Russian. The boy's eyes widened further, in surprise and shock. He turned his head and saw Miandad's narrow dark features. "Now," Hyde continued, "if you want to go on living, keep your voice down — lieutenant," he added, glancing at the collar tabs and shoulder boards.

"Who are you?" Hyde could not be certain of the accent, but it sounded Ukrainian. The lieutenant was little more than twenty or twenty-one.

"It doesn't matter. You're my prisoner, not the Pathans'. You understand the difference?" The lieutenant nodded, swallowing the fear that bobbed in his throat. "Good. Give me your papers — quickly!"

The lieutenant hesitated, as if the documents were somehow talismanic, then he reached into his jacket and removed them. His hand shook as he passed them to Hyde. There was a high-pitched scream, and his whole body twitched in an echo of the agony of the man on the road. Hyde opened the ID folder. A tiny monochrome picture of the young officer, unsmiling and perhaps a little pompous. The official stamps, the public details. Lieutenant Azimov. Yes, from Kiev in the Ukraine. Commissioned two years before, after leaving military academy. Afghanistan had been his first posting. Sergei Azimov. A white, scorched, bruised face, foreign-looking in an alien place.

A sheet of paper, much folded and unfolded, drifted to the ground. The young man's eyes followed it hungrily. Hyde picked it up. There was a snapshot, too, in the little bundle of papers which had been tucked inside a battered wallet which might once have been the boy's father's property, almost an heirloom. Hyde read the letter.

Hyde stopped reading. The girl was round-faced, unmemorably pretty, her hair tied back. Azimov's wife, Nadia. Hyde felt he had pried. He hurriedly passed the letter and the snapshot to the lieutenant, who pressed them against the breast of his uniform jacket. He was shivering now, with after-shock and the cold.

"Right, Lieutenant Azimov — you can stay alive if you tell me what I want to know — understand?" A solitary scream, hardly human, worked like a stimulant on Azimov. "You understand?" Azimov nodded. "Good. I want to know about Colonel Petrunin — understand? Colonel Tamas Petrunin. Everything you know, everything you can remember. I want to know where he is now, what his routine is, where he can be found. Help me, and I'll save your life."

You lying bastard, Hyde told himself. It is the cause — shit on it, then…

Miandad tilted the flask again. The boy swallowed, cleared his throat and said, "Thank you, thank you…" Hyde merely nodded. The boy evidently had no interest in who he was, in the loyalties dictated by his uniform, in anything but the fiction that he would go on living. Hyde raised his head and peered over the rocks down towards the road. The cloud had dispersed. Cold sunlight was edging like a spent wave across the grey road. The river gleamed like polished steel. The mutilated bodies had been flung into the ditches on either side of the road. The Pathans were gathering weapons and ammunition — machine guns, rifles, the RPG rocket launcher, a Pathan waving that jubilantly above his head, boxes of ammunition dragged from the burning wrecks. Two men were even dismantling the machine gun from its mounting on the overturned scout car.

They had perhaps ten minutes.

He had already begun to lose interest in the young officer, possessed as he suddenly was by an idea. The rocket launcher, with luck complete with night-sight, capable of penetrating more than twelve and a half inches of armour — or a solid wall…

Uniform, confusion, disguise…?

"Ask him," he instructed Miandad. "Ask him everything. If-if he's…" His excitement was evident. He snapped at the officer: "Where is Petrunin now — today, tomorrow? Do you know? Can you tell me where he is?"

"That bastard," the young officer muttered.

"Yes, that bastard. Where is he?" He was almost shouting at Azimov, who flinched at the noise and urgency of his voice.

"He's in the embassy…"

"Military headquarters, you mean?"

"No, the embassy. He's KGB, remember. He won't use military communications — too insecure for him."

"Why the embassy?" Hyde snapped.

"Who knows? Who cares? Some purge of the civil service in the wind, of the government, of the army. Who gives a toss why? He'll be there all week, so I hear."

Yes, yes, yes…

"What is it?" Miandad asked, standing up beside him.

"Find out everything. Get him to draw you a map of the embassy. I'll stall Mohammed Jan for as long as I can."

"You have a plan?"

"I think so. If he knows as much as he seems to. Find out. I'll keep them away from you." The RPG-7 launcher was being handed almost reverently to Mohammed Jan, who accepted it like some symbol of authority. Yes, Hyde thought fiercely, yes—

"I speak very little Russian, you speak no Pushtu. I'll stall for you while you question the boy."

Hyde hesitated, then nodded. "OK. Give me ten minutes."

"I'll try." Miandad turned away, then looked back at Hyde. "You realise," he said softly, his eyes focused beyond Hyde, on Azimov, "you can't allow him to go, or to remain here in hiding. If a helicopter comes, he knows too much." Hyde nodded, expressionless. "And you can't hand him over to—" Hyde shook his head. "You realise, then…?"

"Yes," Hyde said in a whisper. "I'll shoot him when he's told me what I want to know. In this God-forsaken place, a quick, clean death is tantamount to a mercy killing!"

CHAPTER EIGHT: The Capture

Miss Catherine Dawson bobbed and fussed about the bird table in her garden much like one of the tiny creatures she was attempting to preserve with bacon fat, bread and bags of peanuts. She wore gumboots, an old fawn coat, and her grey hair was wispy as it escaped from her headscarf. The snow drifted down gently from a uniformly grey morning sky. Miss Dawson seemed well able to contain her impatience, if she possessed any, with regard to her visitor.

Massinger guessed she was almost seventy, which would have made her a woman in her late twenties, perhaps as much as thirty, when she was posted to Berlin as a Control Commission translator and interpreter immediately the war in Europe ended. She had been a member of Castleford's staff for more than a year before the man disappeared.

Massinger had first telephoned the previous afternoon. There had been no reply. He had rung repeatedly, obtaining an answer from Miss Dawson only late in the evening. She had been visiting friends for the day. Yes, he might certainly call the following morning. At ten? Certainly. Thus, Massinger had remained at Hyde's flat overnight. He realised that, while he possessed a safe route across the border, it was crucial to his continuing safety that he appear both convincing and convinced when he surrendered his quest for the truth. He needed to talk to this woman, perhaps to other survivors, before he could lay down his self-imposed task and declare himself satisfied with his discoveries and the fact of Aubrey's murderous guilt.

He had slept little. He was ashamed that impatience to be with Margaret had troubled him more than guilt at abandoning his friend. Now, at a little after ten in the morning — Terry Wogan had been making his farewells on the transistor radio as he had passed through the kitchen behind Miss Dawson — he was at the rear of a modernised cottage in an Oxfordshire village, pursuing the charade that might save his marriage and his life. Despite his lack of sleep, he felt fresh; impatient, too, and increasingly optimistic. A lighter, shallower person, perhaps, than he had felt himself to be for some considerable time. He could, however, sense himself putting clocks back, reordering pleasure and happiness like additional supplies for a hopeful expedition. The soft, large flakes of snow fell on his uncovered head, melted on the shoulders of his raincoat. They were chilly, pleasurably so, against his clean-shaven cheeks. He almost wanted to put out his tongue to taste the snowflakes like a child.

"It's very good of you to take the time to see me," he offered again to Miss Dawson's bobbing back. "I realise I must be intruding."

"Must you?" Miss Dawson replied, turning to face him. "What could you imagine so occupies me that a visitor would be unwelcome?" Her blue eyes twinkled. Her dentures were falsely white, but displayed in a genuine, almost mischievous smile. He wondered whether it would be wrong, even patronising, to feel regret for her that she had never married.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

She completed her ministrations at the bird table and came towards him. Almost at once, a robin appeared on the table. Two yellow-breasted tits followed it, dangling at once from the slightly swinging bag of nuts. A red plastic mesh. Sparrows landed. Miss Dawson turned and contemplated the scene for a moment like a satisfied Saviour, then ushered him indoors as if she had only that moment realised it was snowing and he was bareheaded.

"Coffee — cocoa?" she asked, gesturing him to one of the upright kitchen chairs. He lowered himself onto it, aware of his hip. Its aching, its stabs of pain had returned with renewed vigour, it seemed, since his decision to rehabilitate himself with his wife and Babbington; as if he wore his conscience in a holster on that hip.

"Coffee would be fine," he said. Miss Dawson had studied his awkward movements.

"You should have the operation," she murmured, fussing with a non-stick saucepan at the stove. "I did — both hips."

"Yes, I should," he replied. The conversation aged him — something did, at least. "Maybe after the summer…"

She poured milk into the saucepan. The gas plopped alight. She removed her gumboots and coat and headscarf, patting her grey hair into shape. Her eyes were bright and sharp.

"You want to talk about dear Robert Castleford — presumably because of the newspapers yesterday?" He nodded. He was wary of the incisive tone in her voice. "I feel so sorry for your wife," she added like a warning. "How can I help you?"

He was silent for a moment, then spread his hands on the surface of the kitchen table. A check cloth which matched the curtains. Then he blurted, only partly acting: "I–I have to know the truth. You see, I have been a friend of — of Kenneth Aubrey for some time — married to Castleford's daughter, you can imagine my dilemma…?" He looked up into her face, which was pursed and narrow and studious.

"I see. You're an American, Mr Massinger?" she asked with what seemed like keen relevance.

"Yes."

"A dilemma?" She seemed contemptuous. "I don't see why. What does your wife say?"

"She — doesn't know what to think."

"You can tell her from me, then, that your friend Kenneth Aubrey probably — almost certainly — did murder her father!"

Massinger was startled by the wizened, malevolent look on Miss Dawson's face. It was as if she had thrown off some harmless disguise with her scarf and boots. Now she was the wicked queen with the poisoned apple, not the old woman with the sweet voice. Massinger guessed she had carried some kind of torch for Castleford; one evidently still burning.

"How — how can you be certain of that?" he asked. "So certain after all this time?" Miss Dawson had her back to him, lifting the milk from the stove, pouring it into two round, daubed mugs.

"Sugar?" she asked brightly, disconcertingly.

"Please — one."

She returned with the mugs and sat down.

"How can I be certain?" she repeated immediately. "How can I be certain? Because the two of them quarrelled all the time, whenever they met. Because Aubrey hated Mr Castleford — hated his success, hated his importance, his charm, everything about him, in fact." Massinger sipped his hot coffee after stirring the sugar. There was something pat and even rehearsed about the woman's outburst. Nevertheless, he could not ignore it. He could not even regard it as part of the play in which he was acting for Babbington's benefit; for the traitor's benefit, too. The man in Guernsey had believed it — Miss Dawson did, too. Why? "Aubrey had no respect for the rules, Mr Massinger — but I expect you know that. From past experience, if you're a friend." Massinger merely shrugged. "He was ambitious. He stood in Mr Castleford's shadow. In fact, Mr Castleford referred to him as someone too late to fight who wished the war was still going on. Do you understand that?"

Massinger nodded, studying his coffee. "Yes," he said. Margaret's father — had he been like her? The thought had never occurred to him before, and yet it now seemed crucial to the whole business. If he had been—? "Was he a gentle man?" he asked suddenly, unable to contain the question.

"Mr Castleford? Yes — considerate, kind, appreciative. Charming, of course, ambitious, full of energy… but he would never ride roughshod over anyone… a real gentleman, of the old school. Class, of course — breeding will out, as they say."

The woman seemed to have changed once more, to have revealed unexpected origins and prejudices. She looked up to Castleford, always had done. She was a snob on his behalf, even now. Yet, she made the man seem like Margaret.

What if he had been? How could he have been the kind of man Aubrey could have ignored, or accepted? He would have been the kind of man to awaken jealousies, to have created in Aubrey, perhaps, the dark side of a triangle? Massinger felt breathless with the quick thoughts as they crowded in on him, lay on his chest like weights. He sipped more coffee.

"So — you think he might have been murdered by Kenneth Aubrey?" Massinger asked heavily.

"I most certainly do," she answered vehemently. "Please tell your wife I'm convinced of it. If the knowledge will do her any good. It must be very distressing for her."

"It is, yes." He looked up. "But why would he have done it?"

She was silent for a long time, and then she sighed. "I might as well admit it," she said. "You've no doubt guessed for yourself. I was in love with Robert Castleford. Deeply in love. I was thirty, attractive and efficient. But—"

"He thought of you as someone who worked for him?"

She nodded. A lock of grey hair fell across her forehead where the face powder was visible in the furrows of her brow.

"Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "He never noticed me — in that way. Her, yes, but not me."

"You mean—?"

"Yes. That German woman on the make. Securing her future. She moved fairly rapidly from Aubrey to Mr Castleford — after all, he could do more for her, couldn't he?" Her face was again wizened with malice. Thirty-seven years later, she had no intention of forgiving Clara Elsenreith.

"I see. She was Castleford's mistress, then. You're certain of that? After she had known Aubrey?" Miss Dawson nodded. The lock of hair bobbed vehemently. Her small body was pinched in, hunched with anger, with forever unpurged jealousy. Beware the green-eyed monster…

Yet he could understand it, sense the power of that emotion. He had known it in high school, even in college. He did not imagine he had grown out of it like a species of acne; rather, he had had no cause. But, if someone took Margaret…?

"You're certain?" he asked again. "Certain she was…?"

Miss Dawson nodded once more. "Yes," she repeated, tight-lipped. "Yes. He — he told me about her, about her coming to him."

"Told you?"

Miss Dawson's cheeks flushed. She looked down. "I was eavesdropping. I overheard — he was telling one of his colleagues, a grubby-minded little man who asked him straight out… he told him. Told him he'd taken that woman away from Aubrey, even…" She did not continue. After a while, she said: "I dropped something in the next room. After that, the door was closed and their voices were lower. I didn't hear anything else."

Massinger inhaled. The noise sounded like a windy groan. He studied Miss Dawson's face. He had found the utterly unexpected in a place he had entered with closed eyes, looking for nothing. No more than a stop on an easy journey of deception. He was drawn towards believing Miss Dawson's evidence, even discounting her jealousy, her admiration for Castleford, her dislike for Aubrey and the woman. She had overheard. Castleford had stolen the woman from Aubrey.

"Aubrey was angry?"

"There was a blazing quarrel a few days later. I didn't hear what it was about, but I was told there were threats. Mr Castleford seemed very upset, very worried, during the rest of the day — for days afterwards." She swallowed. "Until the time he disappeared, in fact."

"Aubrey threatened him?"

"Yes."

"Because of the woman?" His voice was urgent. He could not avoid adding: "This is very important to me."

"What else could it have been? Mr Castleford was very, very worried."

Massinger finished his coffee. He felt he must leave, must have time to think. He stood up unceremoniously.

"Thank you for your time," he said. "Thank you for the coffee. I'm sorry to have troubled you."

"Have I helped?" she asked.

"I — don't know," he admitted. "Perhaps you have. Well, goodbye, Miss Dawson— no, don't worry, I'll see myself out. Once again, thank you."

The woman watched him turn away and exit from the kitchen. She listened and, when the front door shut firmly behind him, her body twitched slightly at the noise. She continued to listen, as if for whispers in the air, and nodded when she heard a car start then accelerate away from the cottage.

She sighed, and unbuttoned her cardigan. She untaped the tiny microphone from her waist, and unwound its lead. She smiled as she looked at it and, before laying it on the table, she said: "I hope that was satisfactory? I'm sure he now seriously doubts Aubrey's innocence."

Sir Andrew Babbington shunted the folded sheaf of German morning newspapers to one side of his desk. Eldon watched the firm, satisfied expression on his superior's features. Most of the German nationals had taken up the story of Gunther Guillaume and 1974 from the previous day's Sunday Times and had treated it fully, speculatively, and with unanimous though veiled accusation of Aubrey for his part in the Guillaume scandal. As Eldon had firmly believed, since Teardrop first broke, Aubrey was the mole in British Intelligence who had tried to warn the East German double agent of his impending arrest. There hadn't been smoke without fire.

"Nothing new, I'm afraid," Babbington commented. "However, it's of minor importance."

"Sir?"

"1974 — not our main concern, Eldon."

"With respect, sir — I really think we should go after it. Full cooperation of the BfV…?" Babbington was already shaking his head. Eldon kept his features expressionless, immobile. On his thighs, his knuckles whitened. Damn it, Babbington simply couldn't see it!

"I don't think so, Eldon. What we might happen to dig up wouldn't be worth the effort, in all probability. No, let's go with what we have, as they say. The last two years, Aubrey's period of real activity. And, for my personal satisfaction and for the sake of Robert Castleford's ghost — find that damned woman who was involved with both of them in Berlin!"

"I would have thought she wasn't our main concern, Sir Andrew," Eldon observed without inflection.

Babbington studied his features, his nostrils closing and dilating with suppressed anger. "No?" he enquired lightly.

"What can she know?"

"Who murdered Robert Castleford, for example?" The sarcasm was evident. Babbington looked immediately at his watch. "I have to see the Foreign Secretary at eleven." Eldon could see a masked smile lifting the corners of Babbington's mouth. Also present at that meeting would be Sir William Guest as Chairman of JIC and the Home Secretary. That small group of men would ratify the establishment of the new Security and Intelligence Directorate and confirm Babbington as its first Director-General. Babbington was less than an hour from absolute secret power.

Eldon felt no envy for the man; merely a thankfulness that SIS would at last be under the aegis of the security service and no longer a maverick organisation; in future, its work would be properly supervised. And Eldon felt profoundly grateful that they had uncovered Teardrop — Aubrey. The damage he had been able to do was not irreversible, not conclusive in all probability. It might take a year or two, but they would weed out everyone who had worked with him and alter the organisation's structure sufficiently to render his betrayals relatively harmless.

Yes, it was a consummation to be profoundly thankful for.

"Very well. Sir Andrew," he replied. "What about Shelley and Paul Massinger?"

"Mm." It was evident that Babbington had already made his decision and was simply pretending to muse. "I'm pretty certain that Shelley will be a good boy in future. I think he has been somewhat misled by old loyalties… and of course, Massinger has been subjecting him to pressure." Babbington steepled his fingers, elbows on his desk. "As for Massinger, his conversation with Miss Dawson has left him seriously in doubt. I think we can predict he will drop the matter very soon. He's beginning to believe that Aubrey did the dirty deed, after all."

"You're certain of that, Sir Andrew?"

"No, Eldon, I'm not certain. I simply don't think we need do very much more. There is no need for us to make the whole thing more messy than it is by precipitate action. Massinger doesn't want to lose his wife. Anything that persuades him, or helps to persuade him, that Aubrey is guilty of her father's murder, will be clutched to his bosom only too eagerly. Just let the matter take its course."

"Very well, Sir Andrew. And — Hyde?"

"He must be under cover somewhere — skulking on the Continent like a debtor. He'll come to light eventually. He's no problem. Incidentally, any KGB activity?"

"None."

"They've cut their losses. Abandoned Aubrey to his fate, then?"

"It appears so, Sir Andrew."

"Wise of them, in the event. Very well, Eldon. The DPP would like the papers by midweek. Naturally after they've been seen by the PM and the Attorney-General, in this extraordinary case. Can your department manage that?"

"Yes, Sir Andrew. Sir Kenneth can be formally charged this week."

"Good."

"You know where he is now?"

"Yes, Comrade Rezident General. He is returning from Oxford at this moment. He is driving—"

"Never mind. Just make sure they don't lose him in London. You presume he is planning to return to the man Hyde's flat?"

"We presume so, Comrade Rezident General."

"Very well. Dispose of him — this morning. As soon and as quietly as possible. Our friend seems to be over-confident as to Massinger's harmlessness. I am not convinced. What he knows already is too dangerous. He might — just might — talk to someone who will believe him. Someone like Colonel Eldon, for example. No, it is too dangerous. Massinger represents too great a threat. They lost Hyde in Vienna — we have found Massinger. We will make certain. Give the order — kill Massinger. I'll sign the authorisation."

"Thank you, Comrade Rezident General—"

"You didn't think I'd leave you holding the baby, did you?"

"I'm sorry, Comrade Rezident General."

"Very well — get on with it. Poor Paul."

"I beg your pardon, Comrade—?"

"Never mind. Just see that it's done."

Hyde had been jolted by Kabul, alienated. They had approached the capital a little after noon, filtering into the city in small groups, making their rendezvous in one of the city's oldest and most warrenlike bazaars, setting up headquarters in the rear of a rugmaker's shop. Its owner was, apparently, a relative of Mohammed Jan. He bewailed the loss of Jan's sons, dropped the ritual tears, put his resources at the Pathan chieftain's disposal.

After they had eaten fragrant, indigestible nan bread and a rice dish with mutton and raisins, Mohammed Jan and Miandad set out with Hyde to reconnoitre the Soviet embassy buildings. The city was crowded, its poorer suburbs and bazaars timeless, antique. The donkeys and handcarts seemed intruded upon by the few ancient cars, the handful of military vehicles. Veiled women, turbanned men, or men wearing beaded, gold-threaded caps; then, suddenly, the Inter-Continental Hotel and high-rise office blocks. Earth underfoot changed to tar. The contrast stunned Hyde. A rug-vendor, samples of his wares over his shoulder and at his feet on the pavement, stood in front of a department store. Hyde grinned, and Miandad returned his expression.

"Nothing changes," the Pakistani murmured.

The smell of passing donkeys, overladen with petrol fumes. The noise of a passing Russian lorry. Someone getting out of a very long black American sedan in front of the hotel; a man in a well-cut, fur-collared overcoat, a woman in furs. The squeak of cartwheels, the noise of a single-decker bus. Roll-neck women's sweaters in the nearest window of the store.

A car or lorry backfired. Hyde immediately saw Azimov's face in the moment that he had turned and fired the single shot from the pistol. The boy had known — even as he feared, even as he experienced a terror of realisation and was crushed by its weight, he had known. His eyes had retained a kind of calm. If there was forgiveness, even gratitude, Hyde could not trust to it. He might have been inventing it.

One shot, through the forehead, knocking the boy's dead body back against the rocks. Keeping the vital, invaluable Soviet military uniform intact, unblemished, without bloodstains. Even as Mohammed Jan had argued, had demanded the boy, Hyde had been unwilling, unable—

Then a Pathan had moved to lay hands on Azimov, at Mohammed Jan's orders, and Hyde had simply turned and fired, almost without taking aim.

"He was my prisoner!" he had raged at the Pathan chieftain. Within the circles of kohl around his dark eyes, Mohammed Jan had acknowledged Hyde's claim with a single flicker of his. eyelids. Then Hyde, calming himself, had explained the necessity of the quick, clean death — the condition of the uniform. Mohammed Jan had accepted his cunning.

As he had accepted his scheme for reaching Petrunin, after listening to what Hyde had learned from the boy. Oh, the boy had been informative. He'd known a lot, remembered a lot, and he told Hyde everything because he was spending the coinage that ensured he would live. He was bribing the Pathan tribesman who spoke Russian and had light eyes and a lighter skin than the others. He had held his letter and the snapshot of his wife against the unmarked breast of his uniform jacket all the time he spoke. Hyde had put it and the letter back inside the battered wallet, appropriating both the private man and the public figure indicated by the ID documents.

"Hyde?" Miandad asked, nudging his arm.

"What—?"

Mohammed Jan was already striding away from them, towards the principal square of Kabul, where the main facade of the Inter-Continental Hotel outfaced high-rise offices and apartment blocks and overlooked the compound of the Soviet embassy.

"We must not loiter," Miandad instructed. Two soldiers with Kalashnikovs on their shoulders took up position on either side of the main doors of the Inter-Continental. Two other guards, now relieved, marched towards a troop transport, then climbed beneath the shelter of its tarpaulin. The lorry roared away, black fumes belching from its exhaust.

"OK."

They trailed after the tall Pathan, crossing the square. There were more cars, many of them Russian, with small, stiff flags on the bonnets of the black saloons. Others, mostly cream or white, still possessed an official appearance. The buses were crowded. The street-lamps were beginning to glare in the afternoon air, and some illuminated neon signs gained a bolder glow. Hoardings for consumer products vied with stern governmental portraits and Afghan and Soviet flags.

Flags on the Soviet embassy. Behind high black railings, across a forty-yard width of snow-patched lawn, the low bungalows of the compound were dotted around the white facade of the embassy building. An ugly, modern concrete and glass extension lay alongside the main building like a squat, utilitarian transport ship berthed alongside an elegant, superseded sailing vessel. The extension appeared sufficiently modern to have been completed after the Russian invasion. There was a guard on either side of the main gates and a red and white barrier pole. Ten yards further out into the square stood a large concrete bunker, the guard post.

Hyde lounged against a lamp-post while Mohammed Jan and Miandad began haggling with a rug-vendor who had set up his stall on a small, grassless island amid the traffic, opposite the embassy gates. As they bargained, Hyde knew they would be assessing distances, firing positions, angles, cover. Their knowledge of Kabul and of killing Russians was compendious and successful. For himself, he was for the moment, simply the sightseer. His work lay beyond the black railings, wearing Azimov's uniform. Cars and buses swirled between Hyde and the railings of the embassy. The square was noisy behind him.

The Pathan chieftain had guaranteed to get them out of the city once Hyde had completed the capture of Petrunin. And Hyde had repeated his promise while the adrenalin of Azimov's murder still prompted him. 'I will give you Petrunin, for your justice — damn you, I'll give you Petrunin! You didn't need this poor sod — I'll give you the man himself!' Miandad had not bothered to translate, and Mohammed Jan, without loss of face or dignity, had turned his back on him and descended the slope to the road. Hyde had watched him in a mood that was angry, jumpy and uncertain.

Hyde surreptitiously glanced at the watch concealed by the baggy sleeve of his blouse. Four. The air was darkening. Behind the embassy buildings, where the plain ended and the mountains of the Hindu Kush loomed forty foreshortened miles north of the city, the snow-covered peaks glowed pink while the mountain flanks displayed a dull gleam already dying into darkness. He came at this time usually, the boy had said.

Dear Sasha …

Not Darling Sasha, only the more formal acquaintanceship claimed by Dear — Dear Sir…

Dear Sasha… Nadia wouldn't even get the letter and the snapshot back — unless they returned them after removing them from his body, not Sasha's stripped and rock-hidden corpse. She would never know exactly what happened. She would, undoubtedly, fear the worst.

Unnoticed, Mohammed Jan was at his side. Hyde jumped as the Pathan spoke.

"Your promise?" he asked lightly in very accented English, a parody of Miandad, who appeared on the Pathan's other side.

"It still holds," Hyde replied.

"Can you do it?" Miandad asked a moment later, translating now from Mohammed Jan's Pushtu.

"Can he cause enough confusion, once I've got past the gates?" Hyde replied belligerently, staring into the chieftain's face. "You can operate the rocket launcher — can you hit the embassy from here and kill the guards in that concrete bunker? Can you pin down the Russians for fifteen minutes afterwards? Because if you two can't do what's needed, then all my promises won't be worth a light, will they? Just bear that in mind— I'm the one who's taking the risk, walking in there and relying on you two. Remind Gunga Din of that little fact, will you?"

Hyde turned away as Miandad began to translate. He itched with nerves, his skin crawling with his increasing tension, with little prickly outbreaks of sweat, even as the temperature dropped towards zero. He knew he would be all right; he'd be able to cope, get through it. He had to, anyway. It would be some kind of compensation, an apologetic risk to prove that he didn't always kill unarmed boys to save them from torture and mutilation.

Now, Petrunin and the thought and memory of him no longer made him afraid. It was Petrunin, after all, who was really to blame for the boy's death on the chilly, dawn-lit hillside. It was Petrunin who was really to blame for what had happened to Aubrey. It was Petrunin who was really, really to blame for Hyde's danger, for his presence in this alien country, and to blame for the fact that even his own side would kill him if they found him. Thus, he wanted Petrunin very badly.

The curfew began at ten. Darkness fell before five.

The black car was escorted by motorcycle outriders with Kalashnikovs across their backs, and by two other black saloons before and behind it. The windows of all three cars were tinted and dark. The cars were heavy, ponderous, armour-plated, even on the underside of the chassis by the look of it, to prevent injury from a rolled grenade or a landmine: It was the arrival, or so it seemed to Hyde of some hated local despot or potentate. It was Petrunin. 'The flagless car,' the boy had said. 'No emblems, nothing. And the outriders.'

The barrier swung up, the gates opened electronically. With little hesitation or slowing of its speed, the small motorcade swept through into the embassy compound. Hyde watched the cars until they halted outside the ugly extension, then his gaze transferred to the forest of aerials on the roof of the new building, then finally to the windows of the third floor. He counted.

Petrunin's suite of offices. The boy did not know how many guards, what alarms, what booby-traps. There, once inside the building, he would be alone, on his own, isolated and without assistance.

"Have you seen enough?" Miandad asked softly. There were flecks of snow in the darkening air. "We have settled our matters."

Hyde nodded. "Yes, I've seen enough." 'He never sleeps, or so they say,' the boy had told him. 'Bad conscience.' He had even smiled at that. 'He takes pep pills all the time. He can't sleep so he works all night' "Yes, I've seen enough," Hyde repeated. "Let's go."

Massinger stopped the car and switched off the engine. The curve of Wilton Crescent had lost most of its snow. He had parked almost directly opposite his own flat. As he looked up, he almost expected to see Margaret at one of the windows — dining-room, drawing-room, any one of the tall windows.

He kept his hands on the wheel of the rented Ford Granada, afraid that they would display a tremor he could not control the moment he freed them. It was past midday. He had been driving around central London, simply driving without purpose or destination, in the heavy Monday traffic for perhaps an hour. His mind had been filled with black and bitter recriminations. He blamed Aubrey and, more, he blamed himself. He viewed the past days, since that morning he had first visited Aubrey, as a kind of delirium; something heightened, feverish, unreal. A lost week, a period out of time; days stolen from his life.

Aubrey had been the thief of his time. Aubrey the murderer.

Not that he was convinced… No, he was not convinced, he told himself once more, not nearly convinced. But, he could not rid himself of the suspicion that it was true, might be true, could possibly be true…

Massinger shook his head like an old, tormented animal smelling the already spilled blood of the herd.

He knew, with a bleak certainty, that he had begun the process of moving towards a conviction of Aubrey's guilt. And for the moment, relief that it was over, relief that he could take up his life at the point where he had put it down like a parcel — all that was less important than the creeping horror that Aubrey had murdered Margaret's father. Had done, had done it—

Even the thought that he and Margaret would be as they had been — before all this business, before his visit to Aubrey — paled into insignificance beside the betrayal that Aubrey's probable guilt represented. Aubrey — of all people, of all crimes, Aubrey—?

He could not move from the car. Wearily, with limbs weighted with the gravity of some huge, malignant planet, he wiped at the clouded windscreen.

Hyde, he thought, but the thought lost shape, tailed off. Hyde—?

Probably dead.

The traitor—?

Unidentified.

Himself—?

He saw the concepts as words, and they appeared to him as clearly and as robbed of significance as if they had flickered onto a computer screen. And his answers were similarly robbed of importance. They were the mechanical answers of a computer.

Himself—?

Safe…

Yes, safe. He could cross the crescent, enter his flat, greet his wife, eat lunch after a dry sherry, then ring Babbington with a clear, satisfied conscience.

A few minutes, many words, an honourable draw. Everyone satisfied. No shame to him — Aubrey probably had done it, for whatever mad and jealous reasons.

Margaret would take him back. That was another of Massinger's certainties.

Then, get out of the car…

He felt weak. The facades of Wilton Crescent beckoned. My God — Aubrey had almost managed to destroy everything, everything he had ever cared for, everything that gave meaning— A grey pigeon settled on the windowsill of his drawing-room. Four feet from it, on the interior wall, two original Turners hung, one above the other. They had been behind Babbington's head, early on in this business—

Now, he would possess them again. Possess Margaret, know peace.

Get out of the car.

The pigeon lifted heavily from the windowsill, gained height, seemed to become slimmer, more streamlined, rose and flew against the grey sky.

He opened the door and climbed out of the Granada with a fresher resolve. Yes, all would be well—

He locked the door and began to cross the crescent. He looked up at the window of the drawing-room. There was a face — old, rich Miss Waggoner — at one of the windows of the next flat, and then there was Margaret's face at the correct and expected window. He could not resist waving. Her hand fluttered next to her ear, then it touched her mouth as if she regretted the involuntary action and was remembering the past week. He waved again, hurrying forward, stick tapping ahead of him. He did not look down at his feet as he had become accustomed to doing, but kept his gaze on the window, on her face. Younger lover, much younger, arriving — he should have bought flowers, wished he had now that the black moments were past and he had abandoned that guilty old man.

Her eyes flickered away from him, then returned. Her mouth — he could see it quite clearly, opening into a black round O — seemed to be trying to warn him—

Noise of a car, fierce acceleration.

Noise of a car, getting nearer, some youthful, trained part of his awareness warned him.

He turned his head.

The distinct image of a dark blue Cortina — dark blue Cortina — and a stabbing, reluctant pain in his hip. Awareness of the polished handle of his stick, firmly in his grasp. Awareness of being stranded in the middle of Wilton Crescent. Twenty yards, fifteen, ten yards.

The blur of a cat racing across the road, disappearing beneath the wheels of the Cortina, not even a lurch from the car, nothing but the scream of the cat. He looked helplessly up at the round dark hole of Margaret's mouth, knowing she had begun to scream, as if expecting her in some way to help him, alter his circumstances. Then he hobbled, lurched, staggered, fell, rolled…

The Cortina's flank bounced away from the stronger coachwork of a Rolls. An oncoming small red Renault had swerved into the kerb, squashing its already blunt nose against the boot of a low sports car. Massinger lay in the gutter, blood from a graze filling his left eye. His right eye blurred with tears or sweat as he watched, almost from beneath the front wheels of the Rolls, the professional face in the Cortina. Jagged, crumpled bodywork was close enough to his face to be out of focus.

Too many people, already too many people. His hip ached infernally, as if someone had tried to wrench off his leg. His arm and shoulder were bruised against the Rolls — the silver lady had torn the sleeve of his raincoat — and he had grazed his forehead. But he was alive, and—

The professional face studied him for a moment. The moment elongated, and Massinger began to realise, foggily, that he was not safe, it was not over. The driver's window began to open, rolling down slowly, taking away the superimposition of the white fagade of his flat and leaving only the expressionless face.

A gun?

Then the scene was blocked out; someone was kneeling by the front wheel of the Rolls, between his body and the man in the Cortina. A man's knee, a neighbour's voice murmuring something shocked and solicitous. He wanted to warn the man, then felt all energy and tension drain from him as the Cortina's engine revved furiously, the tyres squealed, and the car pulled away round the curve of the crescent.

He nodded in reply to whatever the man had said. Then he could see again. He watched the neighbour's feet move away. Beyond the cramped perspective of the chassis of the Rolls, he saw the man kneel anxiously, even gravely, by the squashed form of the cat. It was the neighbour's cat, he recognised it now.

The woman who had been driving the small Renault was complaining to a gathering audience in a high, shrill, enraged voice. Massinger groaned with relief.

He looked up into Margaret's face as she touched the graze on his forehead. He grabbed feverishly at her hand, holding it to his cheek, pressing his face against her palm. He groaned again, with realisation.

"What is it — darling, what was happening…?"

He shook his head. "Help me up, dear." She took some of his weight. He levered himself up on the stick she handed him, jamming it like a vaulting pole into the angle of the gutter. He felt dizzy for a moment, someone unnoticed murmured an enquiry which Margaret fended off. She helped him across the pavement, up the three steps into the house. Someone else had the ground floor, a film producer hardly ever in residence, and the first and second floors belonged to Margaret — to them, he corrected himself.

He allowed his body to press against her as they climbed the stairs to the first floor. Lovers, returning…

He sighed, cursed in a whisper.

"Are you hurt?" Margaret asked. "Shall I call Dr Evans?"

He shook his head. "No. I–I just realised that nothing's changed."

"Oh, God—!" she breathed fiercely.

"It wasn't an accident."

She thrust open the door of the flat. "I — realised that," she announced with difficulty. "Here, take off that raincoat. I'll get some hot water and iodine. Any other damage?" She was a bluff, competent nurse; playing a role with narrow horizons for the sake of a moment's respite.

She directed him into the drawing-room. "Have some whisky. I won't be a moment." She pressed his hand fiercely, then released it, and disappeared into the bedroom. Massinger looked up the stairs to the second floor and his study, as if needing music more than a drink, but then he went into the drawing-room.

He clattered the decanter against the glass as he poured a large whisky. He swallowed greedily, coughed, and straightened his aching body against the sideboard. He breathed slowly and deeply a number of times.

They wouldn't let go. Shelley had been wrong, he had been wrong, to believe the illusion of escape. He knew too much, even though he knew little. He could talk. Someone, eventually, might listen.

He was safer dead.

Margaret was at his side. The iodine stung like his thoughts, bringing tears. The whisky warmed his chest and stomach. Minutes later, they were studying each other across a space of carpet, each perched on the edges of their chairs like people in a strange room, peasants who had uncomfortably inherited a palace. Margaret's hands quarrelled with each other in her lap, mirroring some internal struggle. Except for her hands, and a stray lock of blonde hair, she possessed the midday appearance of a woman of her background and wealth; groomed, confident, desirable.

But vulnerable, now, like himself.

"I — almost believe—" he began.

"What happened?" she blurted at the same moment.

Exchanged smiles turning to worry on her part, lack of resolve on his. She gestured to him to continue. Instead, he answered her question.

The smell of iodine, suggesting wounds…

"They tried to kill me."

"Who — for God's sake, darling, who?" There was no longer any barrier between them. He had come home, but not by the route he had planned.

"I don't know. Whoever believes I know too much."

"Do you?"

He shook his head. "I don't think I do. I've met Hyde in Vienna, but he knew nothing except that Vienna Station, in full or in part, is working for the Russians."

Her eyes seemed to resist the secret world for a moment, then she merely nodded. She wished to be counted in, a convert.

"Go on."

"They tried to kill him."

"Where is he now?"

"Afghanistan — but I don't know whether he's alive or dead."

"But-you?"

"There's someone," he began, "someone high up, in this country's intelligence service, and it isn't Kenneth Aubrey—" He raised his hand to still protest, but there was little reaction to the name on Margaret's face. Her white hands had stopped their fitful quarrel. "Someone who is a Russian agent — someone who's afraid of Hyde and me being on Aubrey's side…" He sighed. "I'll tell you everything I know," he said.

She listened without interruption. Aubrey, Vienna, Helsinki, Oxfordshire. Once or twice, when the subject of her father appeared like a broken bone through skin, her features winced or pursed. Otherwise she was expressionless, her eyes fixed on Massinger, her fears for him more evident than any other concern. Occasionally, her hands resumed their conflict in her lap, on the light blue and grey of her skirt.

He announced, after a final pause: "Obviously, they'll kill me unless I can find out who they are. Who he is." Then he sipped at the remainder of his whisky. His throat was dry with speech, and with renewed fear. He had explained it all to her in unemotional terms, with simple clarity. Now, having so carefully and clearly laid out the parts of the puzzle, he saw that it possessed more potency, more ability to frighten than a crowd of vague, unformed premonitions or nightmares.

It was strange, he thought, that when he told her he had begun to believe Aubrey guilty of Castleford's murder, she had shown little in the way of expression. He had paused to allow her to comment, but she had done no more than wave him on with his narrative. Now, as he waited for her to speak, she studied him for a long time in silence. Her cheeks seemed blanched beneath the make-up, and there was a small, close-knitted frown above her nose. Then she stood up, crossed to the sideboard, and poured herself a drink. She returned to his chair and stood by it — as she had done a week ago when Alistair Burnet had stunned them with the news of Aubrey's arrest and the accusations against him, and her father's face had filled the television screen.

She clutched his hand. He did not look up. He felt the tremor running through her grip, and squeezed her fingers. She shook his hand gently. He heard the tumbler touch against her teeth as she drank from it.

"What do we do, then?" she asked.

He sighed. She shook his hand gently once more. He was indeed home. But he had returned to find that his home had been transformed into a fortress in his absence. He was no longer alone, but he had brought, close behind him, the enemies he had made so that now they threatened his wife as well as himself.

Using the number of one of Aubrey's credit cards and the telephone of a nearby restaurant, Mrs Grey had bought a change of clothes, underwear, toilet accessories, and a suitcase to contain the purchases. A friend of hers had picked up the clothes and toiletries and the suitcase and left them in a locker at Victoria Station, bringing Mrs Grey the key.

Now, all he had to do was to place himself in conjunction with his new and unseen luggage. A ticket to Dover was all that was missing from his arrangements — no more than a moment at a booking office window. He had only to slip from the house, find a taxi, get into it, order it to Victoria, collect the suitcase…

The arrangements revolved again and again in his mind like something worrying him while he was still on the edge of sleep. He could not awaken sufficiently to rid himself of it or solve the puzzle it presented.

Because such repetition was only a blind, a piece of self-delusion. Beneath it lay the extreme difficulty, the practical impossibility, of leaving his flat unnoticed. Beneath that again in the geology of his fears lay the enormous and still enlarging sense of his imminent black ruin; the despair at the possible discovery of his journal before he could destroy it. Forty-five years of service, almost seventy years of his life, would be reduced to complete and utter ruin. It had been good for that man if he had not been bom, his memory had quoted at him throughout the day. He could not regard such an idea as melodrama, or exaggerated or out of proportion. He realised that his professional ruin would mean that much to him. He would, with foreknowledge of it, have chosen not to begin, not to have existed.

He had to go—

He knew he could not rest if he trusted in a message to Clara. He trusted her, but he did not trust himself to find peace of mind without himself putting the journal on the fire or tearing it into small pieces and flushing it away; destroying it. He had written the full and true account of the death of Robert Castleford because his accursed, punctilious conscience and overweening self-righteousness would not allow him to leave the truth unrecorded. It had been as if, one day far ahead, he expected to be asked to account for Castleford's murder — as now he had been.

But now, now he did not want the truth, had no use for it. The truth would be regarded as a lie, his motives overlooked or dismissed. Now, only the brute fact would have significance. Eldon would say, with triumph in his tone, "You did do it, then? We knew you had. As for the rest of it — mere nonsense. In your own handwriting, a confession of murder…"

He had to see those pages burning or flushing away! There was no other way, no help for it. He had to make the journey, escape from England.

Even that idea pained him; an indigestive, burning pain in his chest. He, having to escape from his own country, the country he had loyally served for most of his adult life, in war and peace, declared war and undeclared war.

He looked at the clock. Almost six. Heavy traffic outside, the flash of passing headlights on the ceiling of the darkened room.

Through the window, if he raised himself in his armchair to see it, Regent's Park had retreated into darkness. Beyond the park, the lights of Primrose Hill receded northwards into the distance beneath the orange-glowing winter sky. The first stars were out, hard and brittle. The room was warm yet he sat in the chair in his dark overcoat, hat resting on his lap, as if he could no longer afford his heating bills.

He was ready to leave. He needed only to find the nerve to begin, to take the first step. He had prepared for the moment, perhaps ever since they had confined him to the flat.

Compulsively, without definite purpose but with all his professional instincts, he had studied the surveillance teams; their characters, their routines, their weaknesses… most of all, their growing, inevitable complacency.

He had encouraged Mrs Grey, much against her will and much to her disgust, to begin to supply the various teams with cups of tea, cups of coffee. Then to warm the pies or fish and chips they had bought. To provide sandwiches on occasion. To mother them…

Stiffly, angrily, she had learned her part and softened into it. He, meanwhile, had watched their change-overs, especially those that came after dark. Especially this one at six. Every evening he had watched.

Sloppy. Complacent, lazy, sloppy — more so with each passing day and night. Only one old man to worry about upstairs… easy, cushy…

Tonight, it was curry from an Indian take-away. Mrs Grey had chilled the lager they drank with it, in her fridge. She had just taken it out to them, enough cans for the two teams, new and old. She would chat, in a motherly way, for a few moments, acting like a further sedative. Then, when she judged it safest, sensed the right moment, she would return to the front door and ring the bell, summoning him to begin his journey. There would be only a moment when he might slip undetected across the street to the darker park side of the terrace. Then he might reach the corner, then the Marylebone Road and the rush-hour and the taxis… They would not be expecting—

The doorbell sounded, shrill in the silent flat. Aubrey's body twitched as if electrocuted. His hands grabbed the arms of the chair. His hat fell to the carpet. Like an automaton, he pushed himself upright, bent to collect his hat, then moved stiffly to the door. He did not glance at the furniture, the emperor's new clothes that had been no more than an illusion, but left the flat almost unseeingly. He descended to the ground floor. The front door was slightly ajar. He could see Mrs Grey in the porch, hidden from the surveillance cars by deep shadow. She turned as his hand touched the latch. Aubrey could tell, by the startled look on her face and the immediate, worried frown, that his face must portray wildness and inadequacy. He patted her hand fumblingly like a very old and senile man. She appeared unreassured. He brushed past her. She had no idea where he was going, only abroad, escaping — what she did not know she could not mistakenly tell.

He let go of her hand, and his own hand fell to his side as if she had been taking the weight of it. His hand, then arm, then trunk, then legs, too, became heavy and slow and burdensome. He did not look either right or left, but crossed the road with a firm, blind, jerky step. He reached the opposite pavement. When he turned, the facades of the Nash houses gleamed orange-white in the light of the street-lamps. Aubrey began to walk away from the parked cars of the two surveillance teams. Mrs Grey had not even had time to tell him all four men were sitting in one car, eating. He strode on, a melodramatic actor in his dotage parodying a blind man's walk.

A woman with a dog spoke to him. He raised his hat without seeing or identifying her. There was the noise of a car behind him, but it did not evoke fear. He merely walked on until he reached the end of the terrace and turned right towards the Marylebone Road.

Lights, traffic. His legs felt weak, almost without energy, paralysed. His body had become very heavy now, glutinously restraining his emotional desire for speed, for flight. He forced his limbs to move. The noise of the traffic loudened. He reached the Marylebone Road.

Taxi, taxi, taxi—

It was cracking, like a mask upon the skin. As his resolve and his will dehydrated, the mask had begun to crack open.

The taxi stopped. "Where to, guv?"

The enquiry was like a gulp of reviving air. He fumbled with the door handle, murmuring "Victoria" in a choked voice. He almost fell forward into the taxi's interior, gaining the seat just before his legs gave away and a hot flush invested his entire body. He sighed, loosened his overcoat, lay back.

"Traffic's bad this evening," he heard someone say, presumably the cab driver, but he had no interest in replying. He merely wanted to rest now, and allow reaction and weakness their moment, then recover from them.

He had done it, he told himself. Blundered out of his captivity like a child or a blind man. He had done it.

Alison Shelley had become fascinated by the woman who sat opposite her in her lounge, still wearing her tweed coat and holding her hat in her twisting hands. The woman was perhaps ten years older than herself, distraught, pale from her various and contradictory fears, tired. Yet she possessed a calm, a sense of certainty, what could only be called an authority, that Alison envied. Margaret Massinger, by virtue of her upbringing, wealth and social milieu, had never had the slightest interest in, or need for, feminism, equality of opportunity, even the franchise. That much was obvious to her hostess.

She studied, too, her husband as he talked to Margaret Massinger. Peter was afraid and kept throwing sly little guilty looks in her direction, but some covert part of him was intrigued, mystified, prompted to action. Alison knew that he was on the point of throwing in his lot with the Massingers and she knew that she, reluctantly, would do the same with her husband. She would join because she knew his current sleeplessness and irritability all derived from his self-contempt and his inability to quell his loyalty.

"There's no other line, Mrs Massinger…" Peter was saying, spreading his hands helplessly. "I only wish there were. Your husband has had all the doors slammed in his face. That's the size of it, I'm afraid." Shelley looked as lugubriously regretful as a bloodhound.

"That's not a lot of help to Mrs Massinger," Alison observed quietly, studying her sherry glass and then Margaret's face. Margaret Massinger seemed grateful for her intervention, perhaps understanding her motives; granting permission for her husband to involve himself.

Peter Shelley's face was dubious, then his frown cleared. He, too, realised the purpose of her interjection, even though he could not act upon it. He shrugged. "I know it isn't," he said. "But it's also true, darling."

"Surely there's some way — I—?" Margaret began, lowering her eyes to the crumpled hat in her lap as her voice faltered. She was distraught, and evidently she felt inadequate to counter Shelley's expertise, his insider's experience. After a moment she added, not looking up: "Paul can't stay cooped up for ever, Mr Shelley."

"I — don't know what to say," was Shelley's only reply.

"Why can't we talk to Andrew Babbington—?" she blurted.

Shelley paused, then shook his head as he spoke. "We don't know," he said softly. "We don't know who it is. And whoever it is might get to hear — then…" He hurried on gloomily: "We don't have any proof, we wouldn't be believed."

"What about this man Hyde?"

"God alone knows where he is. He arrived in Pakistan — there's been no contact since."

"God, isn't there anything you can do?" Alison asked in a loud, strained voice. She got up, pacing the room in front of the glowing fire, her sherry glass catching its lights. "There must be something, Peter — surely to God? Mr Massinger's life's in danger. He's hiding in his flat like a criminal. He needs your help!"

"What can I do?" Shelley pleaded, resenting her interruption. He shifted on his chair almost with the squirm of an accused small boy.

"I can't tell you what to do, Peter…" she continued, now patrolling the borders of the lounge like an inexperienced, nervous guard. Sunday Times — Insight. "I don't know what to suggest…" The newspaper, remaining untidied from the previous day, lapped over the edges of a pink-upholstered reproduction chair. Sunday Times — Insight. Alison moved on from the exposed front page. Yesterday's news. She had pored over the articles more than once, deliberately and evidently, but after Peter had made his telephone calls he had been reluctant to discuss it. So she had abandoned the matter. But now there was this, the peculiar violence of Peter's secret world, brought to their lounge by—

She realised that Margaret Massinger was watching her expectantly. Alison had invited her attention by protest and movement; now she resented it, realising she had compromised Peter.

"Who else has been betrayed?" Heavy type, lower case letters. She had read that, too. She passed the fire, its warmth sudden against her calves, reminding her upper torso that it was chilly with indecision, helplessness. Peter was staring glumly through his interlaced fingers at the carpet in front of the sofa. Sideboard, standard lamp, door, bookshelves — Peter's English classics and books on sailing, her own biographical tastes — then the newspaper again. She had patrolled the room's border once again. 'Who else has been betrayed?' she read.

"Peter…?" she asked slowly.

"Yes?" he replied eagerly, sensing her tone. He had always admitted her intuition as a legitimate intellectual activity. He needed intuition in his work. Aubrey's was the intuition he really admired.

"1974," she announced slowly. Each syllable of the date was elongated, charged with a good-humoured, almost excited mystery. "That business in Bonn."

"I know," Shelley said. "What of it?"

"Is it just newspaper talk?" Her hand reached for the paper, but she merely rearranged it so that she did not have to read the front page upside-down. 1974 — Bonn — Gunther Guillaume, Willy Brandt's senior adviser, the East German spy — rumours of an attempt to warn, even get him away, by a British officer—

"No, it isn't. Hell of a flap at the time. Everyone was talking about it at the office today. Aubrey's the prime suspect now, of course, because he was in Bonn advising the Germans on anti-terrorist security for the World Cup — after that disaster at the Munich Games… it's rubbish, of course. But the mud will no doubt stick," he ended with a sigh.

Alison was standing in front of him. "Was there any truth in it?"

"We never admitted there was — MI5 did a job on us, just as we'd done a job on our own people. Nothing. Just a trace of woodsmoke, but definitely no fire." He smiled thinly, then shook his head. "Pity we can't ask Guillaume, now he's back with his own people."

"Isn't there anyone else?" Alison blurted in disappointment, half-afraid at the ease with which she had been drawn unresisting into the secret world. Her relationship with her husband now was as intimate as lovemaking, yet entirely cerebral. Her body was flushed with tension. She found she had placed herself beside the chair in which Margaret Massinger sat.

"To ask?" Shelley pondered. "I doubt it."

"If — if, Peter?" Alison pressed her empty glass against her forehead and ran her other hand through her thick hair. "No, just listen — I think I'm having one of Aubrey's intuitions—" Shelley smiled involuntarily. "Look, if there was someone in — a British agent working to help this Guillaume… couldn't he be the one who's helping to ruin Aubrey now?" She seemed unconvinced as her words tailed off.

"Yes…?" Shelley asked, evidently disappointed.

"You mean, just as they're blaming Mr Aubrey—" A small, pinched mouth signalled distaste, then Margaret continued: "If you assume his innocence…" She looked down, divided, then: "If you do, then, then — the someone who could have acted then, in 1974, could be the same one now. Do you see what we mean, Mr Shelley?"

Shelley rubbed his cheeks with his long fingers and was silent for a time. Eventually, when the tense breathing of both women was audible above the occasional spitting of logs on the fire, he looked up and said: "It's thin — it's almighty thin."

"Do you think Mr X existed in 1974?" Alison demanded.

"No, but I believe he exists now — and he isn't Kenneth Aubrey, Mrs Massinger—" She waved the assertion dismissively aside.

"I'm keeping his two guilts apart," she announced quietly, frostily. "It is this business which threatens Paul, not my father's murder."

Shelley nodded. "Very well."

"If he exists now, he would have to be high-up, wouldn't he?" Alison asked.

Once more, Shelley nodded, but this time it was in response to some inward image or realisation. "Yes, he would," he murmured. "He would indeed."

"If he's helping the Russians now — then couldn't he have been the one helping them in 1974?" Alison felt her hands clenching into fists at her sides, felt herself willing her intuition upon her husband. A fragmentary sense of Margaret Massinger's continuing problem, the identity of her father's murderer, was dismissed as soon as it appeared.

"He could… he could indeed," Shelley said, then: "It's a very long shot, though." He looked at Margaret. "But it would get Paul out of the country for a while — to Germany. He'd be safer there. Can you two do that?"

Margaret nodded, and said: "But, where? Why?"

"The German security service, BfV, cooperated with Aubrey and our people, later with the M15 investigation. They have files — and we have the man Paul can ask."

"Who?"

"A German—" He grinned like an adolescent. "Who owes Aubrey his innocence, his career, his respect… just about everything."

"Who?"

"Wolfgang Zimmerman."

"The man—?" Alison began.

"The man the KGB tried to frame as a double agent when the Berlin Treaty collapsed. He can repay Aubrey's efforts now. Time to call in the loan."

"But — didn't the previous Chancellor sack him?"

"He resigned."

Margaret was aware that Peter and Alison Shelley were oblivious to her. She envied them their easy communication, their intuitive, quick-minded cooperation. They represented an image that contrasted with her own past days, the rift that had yawned into a chasm between herself and Paul. She would take this chance now, go to Germany with him. Her father would have to wait — as he had waited beneath the ruins of that bombed house in Berlin for five years, decomposing…

She shook her head. Her companions did not notice as their talk bubbled and flew. She had to forget him. She had to help Paul, keep him alive. She could not bear the thought of his death, that new, utter, final loss; the loss of the man who had replaced her father-husband-lover-father Paul.

"Yes," Shelley was saying to his wife as she attended once more, "when the plot was exposed, the Chancellor wouldn't take him back on the payroll, but he appointed him Special Adviser to the BfV. The man has a lot of power — he can get into the old files, rake them over for you… even arrange some protection for you."

"Can you do all this?" Margaret asked confusedly.

"Yes. I can talk to him. He'll do it. Ever since his own people informed him of the debt he owed Aubrey rather than themselves for being cleared, he's wanted the chance to clear the slate. He'll do it." Shelley's face darkened, then he added: "Who knows, Ally — we might find your Mr X this way. I think we may have just found another, hidden door into the fortress. A Judas-gate." He smiled directly, disarmingly at Margaret. "I should get packed for a trip — discreet departure, I think. You're probably being watched. The flat, certainly, will be under surveillance." He paused, then added: "Believe me, Mrs Massinger — you won't be helping the man who killed your father. Kenneth Aubrey couldn't have done that, not even for a personal motive. I swear he could not."

Margaret Massinger stood up abruptly. "Thank you, Mr Shelley. Thank you so much." From her eyes, it was evident she disbelieved Shelley's oath testifying to Aubrey's innnocence.

A burst of wailing pop music from an unlit upstairs window, further back down the alley; someone laughing, then a child's grizzling crying. The smell of food and dung and garbage. Even as the heavy tyres of the BTR-60 armoured personnel carrier squeaked as the vehicle trundled slowly into the square, Miandad was returned to his own childhood. All that was lacking from the familiarity of odours was the hot, foetid scent blowing off the mouths of the River Indus. Here, in Kabul, the night was colder, and the familiar smells changed to sharpness in his nostrils. In Karachi—

No, it was different; the illusion could not be sustained. The personnel carrier was head-on to him now in the dull fire-glow of the infra-red nightsight. There was a flat-helmeted head behind the black hole of the 14.5mm machine gun which was mounted on the squat turret above the two slightly open viewing ports. The rubber eyepiece of the nightsight pressed around the socket of his right eye. He could feel his perspiration becoming chilly beneath his arms and across his back. Behind him, Hyde was waiting, dressed in the dead boy's uniform — Lieutenant Azimov resurrected. Mohammed Jan was behind him, too, with two other Pathans. The rest,of his men — no more than seventeen of them now, after the attack of the patrol — were in their positions around the square. Seventeen, he thought again. Enough, but perhaps only just enough. A shadow-army of fanaticism swelled their numbers.

The BTR-60 came on towards them, skirting the hard-lit square past the shops and the hotel as if it, too, sensed it had no place there. Now, it was no more than seventy yards from the unlit alleyway where he and Hyde and Mohammed Jan waited. Somewhere, a bell struck the hour. Three, four — four in the morning. Miandad's right hand tensed around the forward stock, his finger squeezing gently at the trigger of the rocket launcher. His left hand steadied the slim barrel on his shoulder with the rear stock. The projectile, looking like a miniature closed umbrella, waited at the end of the barrel. The personnel carrier came on. Except for the vehicle, the square was empty; it looked like a stage without performers, a great stadium in which the white light glared and smouldered pointlessly.

Except to him. To him, the square was red. Dull red, like the last of a fire, through which a dark shape composed of wheels, hatches, machine guns, approached. His target. Forty yards away now.

He squeezed the resisting trigger of the RPG-7 launcher. The tube on his shoulder bucked, noise enveloped him. Through the nightsight, he saw the projectile ignite its own internal rocket, then watched the spit of flame moving on its brief, flat, accurate trajectory towards the bulk of the BTR-60.

The HEAT shell struck the personnel carrier just below the slightly open viewing hatches, penetrating the 10mm armour immediately upon impact. The flare of the explosion was like watching a backward-run film of a gunshot. The flame from the projectile was swallowed by the bulk of the carrier which, at the same moment, buckled, swelled like a green, squat toad, and then erupted — two, three, four times its size, then no more than wheels bouncing away, flanks disintegrating into sheets of torn metal, turret opening like flesh sliced with a sharp knife. Smoke, the thunder of detonation, the first tinkling and crashing of windows and falling pieces. Something like a dummy, arms akimbo, was thrown perhaps a hundred feet without its lower torso. Two more dummy-things were flung out of the viewing hatches like jacks-in-the-box. Exploding ammunition filled the square with panic-making firepower.

Miandad loaded a second projectile onto the end of the hot tube of the RPG-7. He glanced up at Hyde. An alarm was beginning to sound in the embassy compound. Incredibly, someone was screaming in the shattered maelstrom of flames. Miandad shuddered, then adjusted his body to comfort in his crouch. He focused the nightsight. The pale concrete of the guard bunker outside the embassy gates was perhaps a little over one hundred yards from where they hid in the alleyway.

"Begin," Miandad told Hyde. Two Russian soldiers had emerged, dazed and horrified, from the refuge of the guard bunker. Miandad could see their surprised, desperate, fearful faces, very pale even though reddened by the nightsight. They seemed very young, like Azimov. Farmboys or factory-hands, not professional soldiers. "Good luck," the Pakistani added.

Hyde tapped his free shoulder and then began running down the alleyway to enter the square at a point nearer the embassy gates. Miandad adjusted the sight. The rubber eyepiece was damp with sweat. Mohammed Jan stood by him, immobile, as if despising the modernity of their attack. The old Lee Enfield was cradled in his arms.

Miandad shifted the balance of the launcher on his shoulder. An officer was ordering soldiers towards the burnt-out personnel carrier. They seemed reluctant to the point of disobedience. All of them were still close enough to be killed by the impact. He squeezed the trigger.

Ignition, the spit of flame traveling straight and flat. One hundred yards, one third of a second, slowed down by the perspective of the nightsight and the flow of adrenalin. Then, impact. The concrete above the sandbags swallowed the flame, and the roof flew off the bunker in a rain of concrete boulders. The walls collapsed outward, burying those who had left the bunker. Dust rose to disguise the violence and the murders. Patiently, swiftly, expertly, Miandad fitted the third projectile. He scorched his wrist against the hot barrel of the RPG-7, sucked it for a moment, then pressed home the folded umbrella of the projectile. He adjusted the sights, felt the sweat on his forehead, soaking into the untidy folds of his turban, felt his back tight with reaction to what he was doing — killing so many, so easily — and then he hefted the tube of the launcher on his shoulder so that it was comfortable once more.

As the dust began to settle, the embassy lights came out like huge stars. The concrete bunker was still half-standing amid its own shipwreck. Bodies on the floor, one or two staggering away, parts of them evidently missing. It was, he admitted, a vision of the infernal in the dull fire-glow of the nightsight. Screaming, punctuated by exploding ammunition. The hard-lit stadium was a battlefield.

Now.

He squeezed. Ignition, one third of a second, impact. It had been faster because he was tired. The adrenalin was running out, just as Hyde needed his. He watched for long enough through the nightsight to see that the gates hung drunkenly on their hinges, almost twisted off their supports, the huge red star broken into crazed paving. Then he passed the RPG-7 to one side, and a Pathan took it from him with a chuckle of pleasure and admiration. Miandad listened to the first Kalashnikov fire and the wail of a siren crying above the noises of other alarms, then stood up. Hyde was now on his own. He had precisely fifteen and a half minutes from the breaching of the gates.

Already, less than fifteen minutes remained.

Hyde's hand gripped the railing. He steadied himself, flinching against the burst of random, dangerous fire from exploding ammunition in the ruined bunker. There were two men staring at it helplessly. The red and white barrier had been flung off its hinges. The smoke and dust made him cough. He looked down at his boots — a size too big, stuffed with rags — and saw with satisfaction that they were coated with dust that had settled on them while he made his way along the railings. He touched the leather holster at his hip which contained the Makarov 9mm PM pistol. Then he stooped to pick up a crumbling fragment of concrete, paused for a moment, then rubbed it viciously across his forehead and down his left cheek. He winced and hunched into himself with the pain and the stinging it left behind. He touched his forehead and cheek with his fingertips, casting the lump of concrete away from him. Blood, when he looked. Blood and dust and sweaty dirt. He adopted a limp, and shuffled the last fifteen yards to the shattered gates of the embassy compound.

The concrete guard bunker was an opened, ruined flower, the smoke rising from it obscuring much of the hard white light from the square beyond. Bodies. Some men still upright, but concussed or shocked. Wounded, too. Alarms, sirens, the roar of vehicles, exploding ammunition. The self-inflicted wounds stung intolerably.

He reached the gates. He could just hear, already, the noise of a helicopter in the distance, the whine and beat of the main rotors carried on the cold night air. Evacuation. Support, defence, evacuation; the order of things. Hyde looked at his watch. Fourteen minutes thirty before the Pathans abandoned the square and retreated to the bazaar before making their dawn exit from Kabul.

A soldier blundered into him. His jaw was missing, and his eyes begged. Hyde rested him like a plank against the railings and slipped through the gates. No one challenged him. He was clean-shaven beneath the dust and blood, armed and wearing the full uniform of a lieutenant in the Red Army. Ahead of him, the lights in the embassy extension blazed like the lights of an approaching liner. A heavily armoured BMP rumbled on its tracks around the side of the main embassy building, increasing speed along the gravel path, squeaking and crunching its way towards him. Its cannon and Sagger missile mounting were clearly outlined against the facade of the building. Hyde began running.

There were other men running; confused, frightened, challenged men who felt they were too few and in an alien country. His boots crunched on the gravel, his shadow raced ahead of him, thrown long by the lights in the square and the burning bunker. Then a shadow began stretching behind him like a warning to turn back as he entered the field of light of the KGB block. The BMP howled past him, cannon swinging like a pedagogue's eyes looking for someone small to punish first, and he stumbled into the doorway of the glass and concrete block which reminded him of, of—?

It was suddenly important, like reorientation, like disguise and bluff, as a guard rammed his body against him in the doorway.

The Czech embassy in Kensington, amid all the old and graceful and corrupted buildings the ugliest and most modern.

He snapped the guard to attention, straightened his cap, wiped at his superficial injuries, and glared.

"Colonel Petrunin wants a report — now! Out of my way!" The guard's eyes lost suspicion a moment after his Kalashnikov bisected his features, at attention. Then his eyes became afraid, and Hyde realised how young he was. Like 1914 — the Russians were sending their youngest, their youth… "That's better," he snapped, passing the guard and making for the iron-railed, mock-marble stairs which had already begun to pull away from the wall alongside them. He sneered at his own heated image. None of these poor sods was in the Party, in all probability. Sending their best—? Don't be stupid—

He smelt burning paper. Someone had panicked and was already beginning to incinerate sensitive material, the incriminating files, as if a liberating army lay out there in the square. He remembered the SIS house-joke when the Ayatollah's mobs had climbed the US embassy fence in Tehran. The only prayer you could hear, so it ran, was for another box of matches…

He steadied himself at the turn of the stairs. The adrenalin was out of control, running like heady wine. He couldn't restrain his thoughts. That was Petrunin's doing. Even as he saw the sleeve of his uniform jacket, he envisaged the boy's broken, bleeding head — a small thin fount of blood — bang back against the rocks before the dead body slid into a heap. He rubbed his cheek, reminding himself of the stinging pain. Stop it, stop it—

His hand was quivering, his arm shaking as he gripped the cold iron banister. Counter-productive, he told himself. Out of control. He'll kill you in this state…

Helicopter noises, closing now outside—

Helicopters laying black eggs that opened to let out a mist that Petrunin had ignited — fifty men dead, charred like burnt biscuits in no more than a moment. A red helicopter that gloated its way back down the valley—

He could kill you in this state—

Two hard-faced men in civilian clothes passed him, their arms clutching bundles of files. They did not even glance at him. They were obeying an order to abandon ship that had not yet been given. The noise of the helicopter was louder still. He looked through the windows into the compound. One helicopter — only one so far, its lights smearing red-blue-white across the snow on the lawn, red-blue-white, as it descended.

In five minutes, Petrunin would be on his way back to army headquarters and be lost for good.

He clattered up the rest of the flight of steps, sprinted along the corridor, the plan of the building he had drawn for himself from the dead boy's description clear in his mind, as if he had summoned in onto a screen. Almost, in the heightened state of his senses and imagination, he could see himself like a moving dot on that screen. Other end of the building — this corner — empty corridor…

A narrow-skirted girl emerged from an office. Hyde sent her tumbling as he charged into and past her. He heard his boot crunch on her lost spectacles, heard her cry as he rounded another corner. Outside, now that the rotors of the first of the helicopters had slowed, he could hear the chatter of rifles on automatic, answered more distantly by the guns of the Pathans from the square.

He looked at his watch. Twelve minutes — less — remaining. Perhaps four minutes before the corridor in which he hesitated like a lost visitor was filled with rescuers, ready to escort Petrunin to that first helicopter in the company of the Soviet ambassador.

Guards in the next corridor. He could hear the nervous words flickering between them like gamblers' bids. He strode around the last corner. Carpet, suddenly, not linoleum. Petrunin's KGB suite of offices. He glanced out of the tinted windows along one wall of the corridor. The guards had their noses pressed against the glass like children at a fairground.

"Back to your posts!" he snapped.

Troops were running across the light-mossed, snowy lawn towards the main embassy building. One of them fell, killed by a bullet which could have come from either side. Other soldiers scuttled beneath the idling rotors of the MiL-8 transport towards the KGB building.

Three minutes.

The soldiers had already sullenly shuffled back to their posts, almost forming a ceremonial guard for inspection as he passed down the corridor to the main double doors at the end. One guard, two, three, four—

"Sir — there's no admittance," the fourth guard offered, unslinging his Kalashnikov from his shoulder.

Hyde turned and glared at him. He pointed at his forehead and cheek.

"Do you think I've come for the coffee?" he asked. "Comrade Colonel Petrunin wants a full report on the situation at the gates. I was at the gates, unlike you lucky bastards! Understand! You want to delay my report to the Comrade Colonel?"

"No, sir."

"Then step aside. And don't admit anyone else, not until you've seen the proper authority."

"Sir."

Hyde passed swiftly on before he could be asked for papers he did not possess. He knocked once, loudly and peremptorily, on the double doors then opened one of them and slipped into the ante-room, his hand fiddling with the holster flap over the butt of the Makarov pistol.

A male secretary on the telephone glanced up immediately, his only concern his inability to identify the features partially disguised by the cuts and bruising. One hand reached into the top drawer of his desk. His left hand still held the telephone. He continued his urgent request for more back-up.

Then the Stechkin automatic came above the level of the desk and the telephone was ignored, and Hyde shot him twice, the Makarov still pressed against his hip. The secretary ducked under the table, as if looking for coins he had dropped. The telephone receiver followed him with a clatter.

Hyde swiftly crossed the carpeted, comfortably furnished ante-room to Petrunin's door. Petrunin, in his present circumstances, would be as alert as a cat. How many of them were in the room, how many guns—?

He wrenched at the handle of the door, felt resistance, then flung his shoulder against it, aware of the hollow, soft stomach he presented to any bullet fired through the door. There was a muffled cry and he stepped through, closing the door behind him with his heel. It slammed shut like a call to attention.

Hyde's eyes took in the room.

Petrunin was alone. In uniform, looking much older, much more cunning. Spreadeagled by Hyde's thrust against the door, he had raised himself to a sitting position on a circular, rumpled Chinese rug. Highly polished wooden floor, Afghan, Persian, Indian rugs and wall-hangings. Exotic. Not Western.

Petrunin was looking at him. And at the Makarov levelled at his stomach by a young lieutenant with his back pressed against the door. There was something familiar…?

"Good morning, Comrade General Petrunin," Hyde said in English and he could not help, even though his body was shaking with reaction and his voice had quavered, indulging in an almost boyish grin.

"Hyde, Hyde." was all Petrunin said. And then once more:

CHAPTER NINE: The Prisoners

"Hyde," Petrunin repeated once more, then added: "You've come a long way."

He exuded an easy, false confidence as he sat on the rug, almost as if welcoming a guest to some casual, even exotic party. Hyde remained with his back against the door. There was no sound from outside, but he was intensely aware of the dead body of the secretary behind his desk. Anyone who entered the outer room—

"Comrade General Petrunin," Hyde acknowledged, hearing the noise of a second helicopter approaching.

Through the long window behind Petrunin's desk, he could see people being hurried by greatcoated soldiers towards the first helicopter. The ambassador, a dark coat thrown over his pyjamas, waded through the patchy snow in large fur boots, a woman clutching a dressing-gown around her followed him. He had less than ten minutes by the timetable they had agreed before the raid. He had little more than a minute in this office before Petrunin's rescuers arrived.

Petrunin got up slowly, casually. He appeared unafraid. "You seem to have entangled yourself in the web quite willingly," the Russian observed, flicking the rug's fringe into greater order with the toe of his right boot. Hyde watched the man's eyes and hands and the shape and intention of his body.

Beyond Petrunin, the rescued figures were clambering or being pushed into the interior of the MiL helicopter. The noise of approaching rotors was louder now.

"Time for us to go," Hyde said.

"Of course. Then we can walk into those who have come for me." He pointed to the window. "Rescuing the ambassador is a matter of correct form — the helicopter has, in reality, come for me. There is no way out for you."

"Perhaps — come on."

Petrunin smiled but did not move. The room was overhot. The central heating purred and clicked. Petrunin contemplated his desk. Then he turned on Hyde.

"Why are you here?"

Hyde grinned. "You know I'll kill you, don't you," he said. It was not a question. "You know I'd have killed you in Australia because I knew I should have killed you in England. You're sure of it."

"And that is why you're here?" Petrunin was watching for signs of growing impatience. Yet he was also troubled.

Hyde shook his head. "I'm here because of Teardrop — there, I've given you your passport. I need you alive."

Petrunin laughed aloud. "Then they've done it—?" he asked excitedly. "I wondered, when I saw that Aubrey… but, it's Teardrop, you say. My scheme." His faced darkened. "While I rot here!" he added with a black and utter bitterness.

"Come on."

"There's no way out for you."

"Nor for you. I'll kill you, if it comes to it. You know that — quickly now!"

Hyde moved closer, his eyes intently watching Petrunin's face as he brushed his hand over the man's jacket, his torso. Then he moved carefully behind the Russian, touching along the line of his belt, then brushing his back. Petrunin had no weapon. Hyde gestured to the door with the Makarov, and Petrunin hesitated only for a moment, then collected his greatcoat from the rack and picked up his cap and gloves from a small table. He passed with assured nonchalance out of his office, Hyde close behind him, the Makarov drawn as if for Petrunin's protection.

A guard blundered into the outer office. From his position, Hyde could see the secretary's legs, despite the cover of the desk. The guard saluted. Hyde closed on Petrunin, touching the small of his back with the barrel of the Makarov. Then he stepped quickly away again.

"Is my escort here?" Petrunin demanded.

"Yes, Comrade Colonel—!"

Petrunin's shoulders twitched at the mention of his present rank, as if it pained him that Hyde was present to witness his reduced circumstances.

"Then get on with it. Get out of the way!"

The guard's face was white, thin. He held the door open. Hyde motioned him away from it and slammed it shut behind them, just as Petrunin appeared about to issue an instruction to the guard — perhaps to assist his secretary…? Hyde grinned. There was the slightest shrug from Petrunin as he donned his greatcoat. Hyde glanced through the windows. A splay of lights on the patchy snow, the noises of a helicopter's descent. In the windowed corridor stood three soldiers and an officer, the soldiers in combat fatigues and armed with AKM rifles. Crack troops. The officer saluted Petrunin.

"Come quickly, Comrade Colonel," he instructed. "The helicopter is waiting for you." His glance passed over Hyde but was satisfied by the uniform. Petrunin nodded but said nothing, then swiftly moved into and beyond the circle of the three soldiers, shielding himself from Hyde with the three bodies. Hyde realised he had lost the advantage. Petrunin — this Petrunin — had an animal's quick, alert cunning. A word — a moment of safety and a quick order — could kill him. The Russians moved down the corridor and rounded the corner. Hyde hurried after them, aware of his own danger. People were running and there was a smell of burning paper and plastic and celluloid. Hyde sensed panic. There was sporadic firing from beyond the embassy compound as the second MiL helicopter, a big transport, began to sag into view, thirty yards or so above the lawns, its lights playing over the grass and snow and the bare trees on the other side of the compound. Still Petrunin remained silent. The man was taking not the slightest chance. Hyde guessed he had begun to enjoy the situation. He knew that the tables had been turned — that now he had Hyde.

Hyde reached the top of the stairs. People pressed back as Petrunin and his small escort moved down the stairs, boots clattering, rifles bristling, Petrunin at the centre of their tight circle. Hyde cursed himself. He had allowed himself a moment of confidence in which he had relaxed, and in that moment Petrunin had surrounded himself with a protective curtain of soldiers. The helicopters had been minutes too early, minutes—

A bright, false sunrise garishly lit the windows alongside the stairs, gleaming whitely on each shocked, puzzled face. The officer, Petrunin, each of the guards, each of the embassy staff. Hyde's eyes were dazzled.

Petrunin glanced back up the steps that separated him from Hyde. His expression was shocked. For the moment, the man was incapable of giving the order he might have issued an instant before. Move, then—

The first helicopter had been minutes early, had been left out of Hyde's calculations. Then the second helicopter, the big transport…

Gobbets of flaming metal, a burning body, flailing rotor blades scattered down on the snow and grass and the guards around the first MiL. A huge ceremonial firework; Miandad had used the rocket launcher once more, perhaps because he had weighed the odds against Hyde. Panic now—

Hyde moved, skipping the intervening steps. Petrunin watched him come, his gloved hand reaching towards the officer's arm, to turn him and his dazzled attention towards this new danger — then Hyde was alongside Petrunin and the Makarov was pressed into the flank of the military greatcoat, hard. Hyde grinned.

The remains of the transport helicopter were burning like a scattered bonfire on the embassy lawn. Soldiers were rolling in the snow, extinguishing the flames that had caught them. One or two green greatcoats lay still. Frightened faces watched from the windows of the surviving MiL. The soldiers surrounding Petrunin had begun to drift towards the glass doors of the building. One of the transport's main rotors lay buried like a sword in the lawn. A ball of flame ascended from an exploding fuel tank. The light washed the foyer. Much of the glass had shattered — Hyde felt his face and hands prickling with fragments — and the cold night air had entered, the successive waves of heat from the fire now dispelling the chill.

Hyde had regained control.

"Guard the helicopter!" he yelled in a high, panicky Russian voice full of desperate authority, pressing the gun into Petrunin's side to ensure his silence. The officer in charge of the escort detail turned to him. "Do it! It's the Colonel's only way out, you fools. Move!" People were clambering into the surviving MiL — civilian staff, soldiers, clerks and secretaries, clinging to it like the one remaining lifeboat adrift from a sinking liner. "Get everyone off that helicopter except the ambassador and his wife!" Hyde yelled in Russian. "Get them off."

And they moved. The officer transmitted Hyde's orders. The Makarov pressed against Petrunin's side, just below the ribs. A BMP rolled gruntingly, cautiously past the foyer, passing a parked staff car. Petrunin moved his hands as if to restrain the now running soldiers, but he said nothing. The soldiers spread out, moving towards the helicopter, whose rotors had begun to pick up speed. There was shouting — a woman was bundled from the interior of the MiL and flung spreadeagled on the melted slush.

"Now!" Hyde whispered fiercely into Petrunin's ear.

He pushed the man forward with the Makarov, through the main doors. The cold was more intense now that the helicopter fire was dying down. There was still some firing at the gates, their ruin almost blocked by the BMP slewed across them. Hyde saw the vehicle launch a Sagger missile. There were dozens of soldiers near the gates now, and two trucks and a personnel carrier. In the hard-lit square, buildings appeared to be burning.

They reached the staff car. Hyde opened the door. Guards watched them from the steps, undecided. Petrunin looked back at them, then at Hyde. He shook his head.

"In," Hyde said, gesturing with the gun.

Guards, suspicious now or concerned for Petrunin's safety, had begun to descend the steps. Petrunin sensed the moment, and raised his head as if to summon them. A small explosion at the gates distracted him and distracted the guards. Hyde struck Petrunin across the temple with the barrel of the Makarov and shoved his crumpling body into the rear of the staff car, arranging it as carefully as he could on the deep rear seat. Then he climbed into the driving seat. The keys were in the ignition of the Zil, and he switched on the engine. The noise brought the attention of the guards back to him. He waved them away, and accelerated towards the gates, the rear wheels slewing then biting into the gravel of the drive.

In the driving mirror, the guards seemed to accept the situation. The escort detail was busy emptying the MiL of its unwanted passengers while still more of the embassy staff — many of them obviously half-dressed or still in their nightclothes — streamed towards the helicopter as to a shrine. Petrunin sat propped and unconscious behind him.

Many of the Russian troops had moved beyond the gates now. Hyde glanced at his watch. His time had run out; the Pathans were beginning to withdraw and he was now racing to overtake them. He swerved around a truck, then edged the staff car alongside the green, high flank of the BMP, its cannon pumping shells into the square. He looked up, seeing flat Soviet helmets above the flank of the vehicle. Kalashnikovs on automatic were creating a dense field of fire ahead of the BMP, which had begun to move into the square.

The nearside wheels of the staff car jolted over one of the ruined gates. An infantry officer suddenly appeared and bent to glance into the car, then indicated that Hyde should wind down the window. Two soldiers barred the car's path. The BMP moved away, letting the lights in the square glare on Hyde, like a curtain being drawn. The concrete bunker was still smouldering and there were a number of bodies near the gates. Most of the square was littered with wreckage and clumps of flame and smoke. Hyde wound down the window. The lieutenant had checked the identity of the passenger. Hyde saw distaste disfigure the man's features.

"This bastard's been wounded — I'm getting him out!" Hyde explained, gambling.

"Pity he isn't dead — bastard's right. Where's your escort?"

"We were going to use the chopper — but there's panic back there. Everyone wants to get on. They'll be shooting each other for a place in a couple of minutes!"

"Fucking KGB!"

"He's too afraid of getting shot by one of his own — he wants to get out the quiet way. If they've got a launcher out there they could pick him off… Come on, man! If I don't deliver him, I might as well shoot myself!"

"Too right. Running like a rat, is he?"

"You've got it. Can I go, then?"

"OK — out of the way, you two!" The lieutenant waved Hyde on. He slid the car through the wreckage around the gates, jolting it over rubble and bodies. Petrunin slid slowly to one side behind him until he was lying slumped on the seat. Hyde ignored him. The BMP was ahead of him, its field of fire concentrated towards the shadowy streets beyond the lights. There seemed to be no return of fire. Infantry followed the BMP on foot, armed, afraid and cautious. Through the still open window, above the noise of flames and firing, he could hear the approach of other helicopters. He pressed the accelerator after assuring himself that Petrunin was still unconscious, turning the car into the narrow street at the corner of which Miandad had crouched with the RPG-7 and opened the way in for him. The staff car bounced on uneven cobbles. In the driving mirror, the small sliver of the square that he could see was filled with soldiers and light. The attack had been beaten off.

He unbuttoned his tunic and reached into its inside pocket for the map of Kabul they had given him. He stopped the car in the narrow, silent street that was little more than an alley, and switched on the courtesy light over his head. He studied the river, the warren of narrow streets, the broad Soviet-Western thoroughfares, the suburbs, the road to Jalalabad.

A helicopter beat low over the buildings that lined the street, startling him. His finger twitched on the map where it had been tapping the location of the bazaar, his point of rendezvous with the Pathans and Miandad.

The narrow street was grey now, not black. Hanging lines of washing emerged from the featureless profiles of blocks of flats. Many windows were lit. A helicopter made another pass over the street in the direction of the square. He laid the map on the passenger seat, checked Petrunin's unconsciousness once again, and accelerated. The visualised map of the city's network of avenues, streets and alleys unrolled in his head. He reached for the red light, to attach it to the roof, and looked for the switch for the staff car's siren. It would be easy. He would move in the direction of army headquarters, only turning into the warren of the bazaar district at the last moment, doubling back through the chilly, vile, winding alleys and packed-earth streets to the rug maker's shop.

He reached out of the window and clamped the red light to the roof. New York, he thought. Playing cops. Behind him, Petrunin murmured and Hyde turned, startled into a sense of danger once more. The hand that still held the red light twitched, then let go of the seeming-toy that had reminded him of celluloid policemen and blank cartridges. He stopped the car at the end of the alley and turned in his seat to look at the Russian, as if for the first time.

The man was still unconscious. In the faint grey light of the first of the dawn, his features appeared sickly, unfed. There were deep lines in his cheeks and brow and beside his lips. He looked much older; he looked vulnerable and alone and someone who had become superannuated and unable to frighten Hyde any longer. Yet this was only a sleeper's mask. Hyde had been shocked by the changes he had seen in Petrunin's face the moment he had slammed shut the door of his office. Older, cunning, the eyes haunted, even totally empty until they filled with a transitory fear and then with a violent urge towards self-preservation. He had come face to face with a savage, degenerate man, someone who had taken lives indiscriminately and often — and had learned to enjoy that power; desiring and needing it. He had been certain of that from the moment the red helicopter had hovered, watching the incineration of fifty tribesmen in the narrow, snow-covered valley. Petrunin's altered, corrupted face had confirmed Hyde's certainty.

Hyde shook his head. He rubbed his throat where the uniform collar had chafed his skin after the loose robes of his Pathan disguise. Disguise — the clothes had smelt, but it wasn't that, either. He hated, had come to hate, the way they implied a common identity between himself and someone like Mohammed Jan. He dismissed the Pathan's image and returned his consideration to the unconscious Petrunin. He had become a wild, dangerous animal, instead of a senior KGB officer bound by the unwritten rules governing the conflicts between intelligence services. Like the Pathans he pursued and destroyed, he was without emotion and mercy.

Hyde realised that he could never trust the Pathans with regard to Petrunin. It would mean his having to travel in the rug maker's delivery truck towads Jalalabad when it left Kabul within the next half-hour, hidden in the back with the Russian. Without him, Petrunin would be a corpse by the time the raiding party took to the mountains.

Petrunin moaned again, entertaining nightmares. Hyde turned his back. The self-loathing that he could not avoid sensing in that low moan chilled and disturbed him. He felt the reality of the alien country and people around him once more. Petrunin was a prisoner of the war he fought. He had become, in essence, a light-skinned Pathan. How would he, he wondered, ever get this Petrunin to talk? What — tortures…?

Mutilation followed by an offer of the release of a quick death — would he have to use those threats, those bribes? He dismissed the Pathan thought.

Savagely, he pressed his foot on the accelerator and slewed the staff car out of the alley and onto a broad thoroughfare that might have belonged in any city of eastern Europe that the Soviets had rebuilt after the war; even in Moscow it would have been familiar. The wide road ran alongside the river, a sullen grey scarf in the first light. In the distance, the Hindu Kush was tipped with bright gold. Hyde accelerated. The mountains seemed impossibly high and endless, and alien like the streets of Kabul.

Aubrey left the main passenger lounge of the ferry because the carelessly disposed bodies of those sleeping suggested defeat to him and the high, raised voices of parties of schoolchildren seemed to taunt. The lights, too, were hard and unsympathetic. On deck, the wind was sharp and buffeting and chilly. Nevertheless, he made his way towards the stern. Long before he reached it, he felt himself to be an old, skulking figure, displaced and exiled. And, as if they had gathered to witness his departure from England, he could see the lights of Brighton along the coast, slipping behind the Dieppe ferry.

He had avoided Dover almost superstitiously, suspecting that any search for him would be concentrated there. He had not rung Mrs Grey — he could net bear to discover that the hunt was up. His journey from Victoria had been uneventful, the pursuit confined to the tumbled and broken terrain of his thoughts. His fears had chased him across the landscape of his imagination.

He gripped the stern rail, which immediately struck cold through his gloves. Brighton, a town he had never much liked, now appeared infinitely desirable; the last rescue craft moored to his country, ablaze with light. The wind filled his eyes with water. He refused to acknowledge the tears for what they were. Instead, he tried to concentrate upon the ease of his escape. One bored policeman at Victoria had seemed more interested in the antics of two drunks than in looking for someone like him. The passport that he had always renewed in a fictitious name had served him well. SIS knew nothing of this falsehood. It was a private matter. Almost everyone in the intelligence service possessed at least one other and unofficial identity. It was, to Aubrey, the twitch of distrust at the very centre of the animal that was always alert for the possibilities of deception. There was a subconscious comfort in possessing a secret and unused new identity. The secret world was habit-forming, perhaps incurable.

But him—? Him—

He was skulking away from England. The wind now seemed like an obscuring curtain drawn between himself and the lights of Brighton. The wake of the ferry straggled away into the darkness like a lost hope. Him—

He thought of them, then. The others. The secret others. The notorious ones, most of whom he had known or met or questioned at some time. William Joyce, sitting detached and even amused in the dock of the Old Bailey after the war. Lord Haw-Haw, voiceless. Then Fuchs, then Burgess and Maclean and Philby and Blake and Blunt, and others behind them. It was as if he had become a dream through which they paraded, much as the Duke of Clarence had seen the ghosts of those he had helped his brother to murder on the night they came to drown him in the butt of wine. He saw his own ghosts, who seemed to wish to number him among them. Traitors.

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 not 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—"

"I must…"

"Leave it alone!"

Zimmermann hesitated, then said: "I do not think that you will find it was…"

"I don't care! I don't want to know!" Margaret wailed.

"It cannot be Aubrey."

"Why not? Why not?"

"I believe it can't be." Zimmermann glanced at Massinger, then back at his wife, then Massinger again. In a hoarse voice, he said, "But you believe it could be Aubrey, Mr Massinger. You do, don't you?"

"I don't know what to think—"

"You're wrong—"

"Stop it! Stop it! I don't want you to go on with it, Paul — I want to begin to forget it. Can't you understand that? Please—"

"I must," he murmured, unfolding the paper. Margaret got up stiffly and left the room. A moment later, they heard the running of a bathroom tap, the clink of a glass.

Massinger felt Zimmermann's gaze on him, felt the man's hostility stalking the room like an interrogating officer. He looked up sheepishly.

"If I had known," Zimmermann began, "that this was your opinion—"

Massinger held up his hand. "Please," he said. "Please. I have to know. Margaret has to know. Christ, I don't know what I believe—!"

"But you suspect…?"

Massinger nodded miserably. "Yes."

Zimmermann shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he was disarmed by the American's unguarded display of misery. "I do not understand," he murmured at last. "I do not understand why you have these — suspicions. But, you have the address now, whatever good it will do you. I have requested the BfV to trace this woman you claim was involved with Aubrey and your wife's father. The man whose name you have was one of the people employed by Aubrey in Berlin, one of many such who later became good BfV officers. The Allies trained many of our best people — to catch other Germans." There was no expression on Zimmermann's face. "The man lives in Cologne. You will need a car."

Massinger looked up. "What?" he asked numbly.

"The sooner you get this business over, the sooner I can begin to help you and your wife — and Aubrey and perhaps even England. I do not know. Your wife will not, I suspect, wish to see you when she has — repaired the damage?" He smiled quizzically. "I suggest that you allow me to entertain her for lunch while you pursue your demon in Cologne. Then, perhaps this evening, you can be of help to me, I to you…?" There was a thin, quick knifecut in the final words, and a sense of knowledge. Massinger felt his dilatoriness, his selfishness, his guilt laid under a hard light and dissected.

"You've spoken to this man, haven't you?" he guessed.

Zimmermann smiled. "Perhaps."

"Then tell me—!"

"No. Hear it for yourself."

Massinger glared at Zimmermann like a malevolent puppet for a moment, then he stood up stiffly. His hip twinged like his conscience. There was hope, too, if Zimmermann despised his doubts about Aubrey—? He could not tell. "Very well," he said. "Very well. I'll do as you suggest."

"There is a car booked in your name. You have only to ask at the desk." Zimmermann's handsome features twisted in bitter contempt. "I will not wish you good luck," he added acidly.

Deputy Chairman Kapustin of the KGB watched the traffic in Dzerzhinsky Square below his window, the transcript of the coded signal from Kabul in his hand, his thumb and forefinger clenched upon the flimsy sheet of paper. Its ragged top edge suggested the urgency with which it had been torn from the pad and hurried to his senior secretary in the outer office. A small motorcade of black, official Volga saloons turned out of the square beneath the swirl of driving snow towards the Kremlin. The Chairman and some of his senior advisers attending a select Politburo meeting. Kapustin wondered why he should feel like a boy not invited to a party. More appropriately, perhaps, he was like the mouse about to play during the cat's absence.

Snow flurried more thickly across the square. Opposite his second floor window, the lights — burning early in the afternoon — of the KGB's own exclusive beriozhka shop gleamed like an illuminated hoarding. As he turned to the senior secretary who had brought in the message, he glowered with appropriate anger, and quashed the rising sense of possible failure and the fear that accompanied it.

"How positive is this identification?" he asked.

"Colonel Petrunin's team questioned the guard detail very thoroughly, Comrade Deputy."

"You checked—?"

"Sir. The code clerk informed his superior — there was a full exchange of signals with Kabul before the message was sent upstairs."

"And—?"

"Kabul concludes—"

"Who in Kabul?"

"Petrunin's senior KGB captain — our man."

"Very well. His conclusions?"

"The kidnapper of Colonel Petrunin was undoubtedly a British agent." The secretary appeared uncomfortable, sensing himself on a limb.

"Nothing more particular?" Kapustin asked heavily.

"Our man thinks he knows him."

"From hurried impressions — from the description here?"

The secretary nodded. "I — placed a call myself, Comrade Deputy. I considered the delay — worthwhile, in view of the implications."

"Implications?"

"Sir — Petrunin's second-in-command was our appointment. When Colonel Petrunin was disgraced, he asked for one of his closest confederates to accompany him when he was posted to Kabul. You, sir, thought it wiser to send someone we could trust."

Kapustin's laugh was like a dog's bark. "I remember!" he exclaimed. "Poor devil. I remember the look on his face." Then his mood darkened, and he added: "Well?"

"He claims that the man involved is a British agent. He even claims to be able to positively identify him. He says the man is Patrick Hyde."

Kapustin appeared puzzled. "Who—?"

"Hyde was with Aubrey in Helsinki, and Vienna. He was with him during many of your meetings."

Kapustin's eyes widened. "Him?" he breathed. "In Kabul? I don't believe it. He's skulking somewhere in Europe…"

"Our man is positive — he knows the man. Sir, if there's even the slightest possibility—"

"Teardrop. You think he's—?"

"I don't know, sir. We can't afford to take the chance, however. In my opinion, sir."

Kapustin studied his face, then the sheet of paper in his hand. Then he looked up again. "You've checked — double-checked?"

"Yes, sir. Our man sticks by his word."

Kapustin was silent for some time. Then he said, "Then there is only one solution. A pity—" The sentiment sounded blatantly hollow. " — but we have no choice. There mustn't be the slightest possibility. Very well. Issue the damned army its orders. Tell our man to take full command. Get rid of Petrunin, Hyde — find them all and get rid of them all."

"Sir."

It was evident to Eldon that Sir Andrew Babbington revelled in the congratulations that Eldon had felt, in duty and sincerity, he should offer his superior. Babbington had been confirmed as the first Director-General of Security and Intelligence Directorate that morning. Eldon knew he would rise with Babbington, but it had not affected the spirit in which he had offered his good wishes. There was only one small element of personal calculation — Eldon was embarrassed and angry at the disappearance of Aubrey and wished to deflect what he anticipated would be Babbington's similar anger. Otherwise, he considered SAID a satisfactory innovation and Babbington its natural DG.

"Thank you, Eldon. A pity, however, that our euphoria must be incomplete, thanks to the laxity your men displayed with regard to Aubrey."

"You'll remember, Sir Andrew, that I originally suggested a closer method of surveillance?" Eldon observed with studied lightness.

Babbington glared momentarily, then waved his hand to brush the subject aside as easily as crumbs from the white linen tablecloth. The club's dining-room was almost full, but Babbington's table was well removed from its nearest neighbour. Eldon could remember occasions when Babbington, the aspiring acolyte in the secret world, would not have merited such a secluded corner of the dining-room. The memory amused him. In some small part, the audacity of Aubrey's escape amused him, too; just as it enraged him morally to see the man escape his trial and conviction.

"Very well. As long as Kenneth's found, there will be no recriminations. Shelley obviously wasn't involved. Kenneth ran out of luck, and nerve, and time. But, Eldon, on this matter of SAID—?" The tone had an element of seduction in it.

"Yes, Sir Andrew?"

"I want you as Deputy Director-General. Second Deputy, of course. I shall have to promote Worthington — temporarily."

"I understand, Sir Andrew. Thank you." Eldon sliced at his lamb cutlet. Babbington sipped at his claret. "I did not expect—" Eldon felt obliged to offer, surprised at his own lack of excitement.

"You never do, do you, Eldon?" Babbington almost sneered. "You seem quite without proper ambition, at times."

"I'm sorry, Sir Andrew," Eldon replied calmly, chewing on the piece of lamb, his gaze level and untroubled. Babbington was irritated by his subordinate's self-possession. His own delight was tarnished by Aubrey's disappearance, but only on the grounds that its ease reflected on himself. Aubrey, per se, did not matter any longer. He had lost, was lost.

"Very well, Eldon," Babbington snapped, irritated by the lack of surprise and pleasure in Eldon, then dismissing the emotions. Eldon was good, reliable, efficient, unambitious — a perfect DDG 2. There was a wife somewhere in Hampshire who would, no doubt, see the promotion in cruder, more pleasurable terms than had her husband. "Where do you think dear Kenneth is now?"

Eldon studied the claret as if its vintage and origins were no more than a cover story. Then he sipped it, and nodded. "On his way East, Sir Andrew. He'll pop up in Moscow, no doubt, in due course — for the medal ceremony." Eldon seemed to be speaking without irony.

"I suppose so," Babbington agreed. "A damned nuisance, all the same."

"Perhaps tidier," Eldon murmured.

"Root and branch now, Eldon. Your first job. All Aubrey's old cronies, his lackeys and appointments and time-servers. I want them all out."

"Of course. It makes sense."

A waiter approached as Babbington was about to reply. A silver tray was offered. Babbington took the sealed envelope. He opened it with the proffered paper-knife, levering up the red, embossed wax, then waved the waiter away. Eldon watched him as he read; watched, too, his own emotions. Studied the lack of pleasure, remembered the Sunday lunch he had shared with Aubrey, and sensed an unwilling and surprising comparison of Babbington and Aubrey in his emotions. Babbington was without charm, except when he chose to exercise it. Aubrey was — charming. Gifted, intuitive, and he would have said upright before events proved that idea no more than a sham. Aubrey was what Eldon might have fancied himself to be — except that Aubrey was a proven traitor. Eldon had no wish, however, to be Babbington.

He watched Babbington's heavy features. Brutally handsome, perhaps. Elaine would have admired the strength of character they displayed, even in growing anger, as now. Fear, too, he thought quickly, even as he inwardly smiled at his wife's impressionability with regard to the superfices of human character. It was as if he had married, with subconscious deliberation, someone who could never rival or imitate his own capacity for insight.

Fear, too—?

Why?

Babbington caught Eldon's gaze, and there was only anger. Eldon maintained a calm expressionless exterior. Babbington screwed the paper into a ball in his fist.

"A message from the Continent," he announced with heavy irony. "Massinger has been seen in Bonn."

"One of the first fruits of SAID," Eldon observed.

"It isn't a joking matter, Eldon!"

"I'm sorry—"

"What in hell's name is Massinger doing in Bonn?" Eldon thought he detected an element of bluff, or subterfuge in the puzzlement. As if Babbington knew the answer…? Eldon dismissed his guess. Better to be like Elaine on some occasions, he warned himself. Interrogator's paranoia. "Why the devil can't he drop this damn business?" Babbington continued. "He must be stopped."

"Does it matter? May I?" Eldon held out his hand. Babbington reluctantly passed him the ball of paper. Eldon smoothed it on the tablecloth, and read. Eventually, he said: "I don't see what we can do, since he's with Zimmermann. Ask politely, I suppose?"

"So do it. And — find Aubrey. I want him to stand trial — I want Aubrey in the dock at the Old Bailey!"

Eldon glimpsed the fear once more, lurking beneath the anger like a serpent beneath a flower. Eldon, too, squeezed the sheet of notepaper into a ball in his fist.

To have reached the abandoned Afghan fort before darkness seemed to Hyde like a race that had been won. The day had exhausted him. Not because of the distance so much as the tensions that surrounded himself and his prisoner. There were eleven Pathans still alive, including Mohammed Jan, and all of them coveted Petrunin as certainly as if he were encrusted with precious stones. Even now, in the shadows of the fort's empty, windswept rooms — a wind that plucked little drifts of snow from the corners and floors of the rooms and whirled them like new showers — Hyde could sense their eyes turning continually towards the Russian, their hunger evident. Miandad sensed some kind of approaching crisis, too, for he had positioned himself near Hyde and Petrunin, his small frame crouched and alert with tension. Mohammed Jan, after posting his look-outs, paced through the fort like a magnate who had acquired a mansion requiring extensive renovation. There was about him both an urgent need for change and a sure sense of possession. Petrunin was his, his stance and movements declared. His by right, his to take.

They had left the truck to continue its journey to Jalalabad less than five miles from the place where they had ambushed the patrol and Hyde had killed Lieutenant Azimov. The Pathans who had slipped out of Kabul in wagons, on bicycles, by bus and even on foot, rendezvoused with them before midday. Hyde was shocked to discover how few in number they were. There had been no time at the rug maker's to ask Miandad anything as the Pakistani had hurried him into the back of the truck with the now conscious Petrunin, then joined the driver in the cab. The staff car was driven away by one of the rug-maker's sons and presumably dumped.

The truck had not been searched. They had evaded the net, perhaps by no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Confusion still aided them, and Petrunin might not yet have been missed.

The afternoon had been filled with the noise of helicopters, after they had taken to the hills — their noise and the sharklike shapes of MiL gunships dark against the snow-clad hillsides. The Pathans had protected Petrunin like their dearest possession; which he was, Hyde admitted. He was the purse that held the coinage of their hatred and their revenge. Bright gold coins. They had avoided detection with what had seemed like ease, threading through narrow defiles or using hidden, hair-thin tracks that clung to the sheer sides of the hills, until they reached the fort where Hyde and Miandad had rested two days before.

After nightfall, they would continue their journey. Miandad expected them to cross the border into Pakistan before dawn. Hyde associated the crossing, and the hours before it, only with crisis, not with safety at the journey's end.

Hatred. Even in that sub-zero temperature, its effects heated Hyde's body. Almost three-quarters of the Pathans had died for this man's capture, the last of them in the square, buried by rocket-loosened masonry or raked by bullets. Some of them might yet die of wounds, exhaustion or gangrene. Their efforts and their losses demanded the mutilation of Petrunin and his slow death as recompense. To satisfy their hatred, they would risk capture and death by remaining here for two or three days just to kill him slowly and with infinite pleasure.

Above all, Petrunin had burned fifty of Mohammed Jan's men; burned two of his sons.

"My friend," Miandad murmured on the other side of the apparently sleeping Petrunin, "what will you do? Have you decided?"

The wind whipped snow from one corner of the roofless room in which they huddled around a small, flickering fire, creating a tiny blizzard which lasted no more than a moment. The arms of Petrunin's greatcoat were dusted with snow. The Russian's head remained resting on his chest. Petrunin had answered none of Hyde's questions. He realised his value to the Australian and relied on Hyde's protection. Petrunin realised as clearly as the Pathans his value as a commodity. He knew Hyde would not sell him to Mohammed Jan, not even at the price of his own safety.

Hyde shook his head. "I don't know," he muttered. "Christ, I don't know—!" Petrunin appeared to stir in his sleep. Hyde dug his elbow viciously into the Russian's side. "Wake up, you bastard!" he growled. As if the Pathans had been large cats huddled around them, there was a murmuring noise as Petrunin sat up; a throaty, greedy, hungry noise. "You bastard, you bastard…" Hyde repeated impoteritly.

"You can't threaten me with them," Petrunin observed calmly, though his face betrayed the effect of the Pathans' murmuring on him. "And I won't tell you, because then you would give me to them. And you can't hand me over and hope to stop it if I talk — they'd never Let you."

"So how do you expect Mr Hyde to protect you, if they are so much to be feared?" Miandad asked.

Petrunin glared at the Pakistani.

"Can you get us over the border?" Hyde asked.

"From here, yes — but I doubt if we could slip away unnoticed, my friend."

"Shit—"

"I am already compromised, I fear," Miandad continued. "It would do me no extra harm to help you escape. But I cannot see how we would possibly outrun Mohammed Jan — can you?"

"No, I can't. We're right in it, thanks to this bastard."

"I didn't ask to be kidnapped," Petrunin observed with an affected lightness that seemed to recapture, for an instant, a former time and place, even character.

"Aubrey didn't ask to be set up!" Hyde snapped. Again, the Pathans stirred. Wild, large cats. "I didn't ask to get shot at by my own side, or to be here."

"I did nothing more than create Teardrop — I didn't use it. It was an intellectual exercise, nothing more."

"What was its purpose?"

"Ah," Petrunin answered smugly, and smiled. Hyde could see his face in the failing light, somehow softened and made younger. It was haggard with effort, of course, and afraid. But it belonged to the Petrunin Hyde had formerly known. It was the face of an invalid who had recovered from a severe fever; and the face of a still dangerous enemy.

"Listen," Miandad said, his head cocked on one side. "I think the helicopters have returned."

Petrunin's eyes gleamed in the firelight as he raised his face to the darkening sky. Hyde listened, realising that Petrunin still expected, by some miracle, to be rescued. Mohammed Jan had appeared in the doorway, then turned and moved quickly away at the first sounds overhead. Hyde got to his feet. Most of the Pathans were alert now, standing or already moving back into the shadows at the corners of the room. Someone had kicked out the fire. Petrunin's smile was almost indistinguishable. Hyde drew the Makarov and nudged the Russian's side with its barrel. The noise of rotors was loud now, and Hyde leaned towards Petrunin's ear in order that the man would hear him.

"Back against the wall. Don't be stupid in your old age." Petrunin nodded and did as Hyde ordered. They pressed back into the shadows. Hyde thought he could distinguish a thin streamer of smoke ascending from the fire's scattered remains, but perhaps it was only the smell of the fire that remained. Snow began to lift and swirl from the floor and the corners and the rooms beyond. The rotor noise was deafening, very low and near.

"Look," he heard Miandad call out. Hyde raised his head.

The MiL gunship squatted above the roofless room. Involuntarily, Hyde's body began to shudder, as if the rotors were beating at the packed earth under his feet. The helicopter squatted on the air, toadlike, and they watched it like minnows from beneath clear water; a dark, ugly shape. The snow whirled up in the down-draught, coating their clothing, flicking against their skin and into their eyes. The room was foggy with the distressed, dusty snow. Hyde, looking up, realised that the helicopter was still descending. It was perhaps no more than fifty feet above the room in which they pressed against the chilly walls, and was slowly enlarging, as if the toad were inflating itself. The snow seemed sucked towards it through the open roof. Like a roof itself, the helicopter filled the space of evening sky.

Mohammed Jan appeared, sidling through the doorway, pressing against the wall. Then a white searchlight beam struck down into the room. Hyde froze. He heard Mohammed Jan shouting above the noise of the rotors, then Miandad crying out, too.

"Soldiers! The look-outs report troops moving up the hillside to encircle us!"

Hyde jabbed Petrunin with the barrel of the pistol. "No!" he warned. Petrunin seemed to shrug. The light spilled across the floor towards their feet. Pathans were already spilling out of the doorway, sidling along the walls. The snow funnel swirled and obscured, garishly lit by the searchlight. The sky had vanished above them. There was only the dark belly of the MiL around the halo of the light. "Move!" Hyde ordered. "Move, you bastard!" He pushed Petrunin along the wall.

Sky again. The light, like a waterfall, poured over the doorway and into the next room — then back. A Pathan fixed in its glare looked up, immobile and afraid. Hyde could discern the noise of other helicopters. There was shooting from outside, in the main courtyard of the fort, perhaps beyond the walls. Miandad moved ahead of the reluctant Petrunin. The light holding the Pathan spilled over them. The helicopter began to alter its angle of hover, and its belly light slipped away from them. Another light, presumably from a searchlight mounted beneath its nose, illuminated the room beyond.

"Now!" Miandad shouted. Hyde prodded Petrunin forward and they blundered past the transfixed Pathan into the cone of light from the nose of the MiL. Machine-gun bullets plucked and tore at the packed earth of the floor. Hyde heaved at Petrunin to make him run. They almost tripped over the Pathan's body. Bullets ricocheted from the stone walls.

They stumbled out into the courtyard which was washed by moving searchlights. Something dark tumbled from one wall of the fort. Machine-gun fire from two more MiL helicopters raked across the open space. Hyde saw fleeing figures, still forms.

Panic, noise, death. Three, four bodies — another Pathan falling, then the light fixed them, held them. Hyde, surprised, realised that Miandad was on his knees. He seemed to be coughing. A vertical cone of light, then a second, more glancing beam. It was as if the courtyard had become a stage, and the spotlights had focused upon the three tiny figures.

Petrunin was looking up into the light. His shadow was flung away across the courtyard by the noselight of the second helicopter, which shuffled closer through the dark air. There was more shooting. One half-ruined wall of the old fort bulged inwards, and Hyde glimpsed figures and lights moving up the suddenly exposed hillside towards them.

Petrunin was waving. Hyde was distracted by a wracking cough from Miandad. Snow whirled up around him, but the snow just in front of his hunched form was red in the hard light. A patch of bright crimson. Hyde moved to him. Petrunin was waving to the helicopter. Miandad looked up at him as he clutched his shoulders, tried to smile, coughed deeply, spraying the front of Hyde's sheepskin jacket with blood, dyeing his supporting hand. Then the Pakistani slumped against him, his eyes staring into the beam of the searchlight with dilated pupils. Hyde let the body fall gently to the ground. The helicopters hung over him. He could feel the beat of the rotors. He turned his head.

Petrunin was waving and shouting. The helicopter neared. Something blundered against Hyde, and fell. Mohammed Jan's green turban was blurred by its proximity, the man's dead face fell past him; a curved knife glittered in the snow. Hyde drew the Makarov, concealing it against his stomach.

Petrunin looked up into the open side door of the MiL, arms uplifted as if in prayer. He looked, too, into the muzzle of a Kalashnikov levelled at him. Hyde swung the Makarov, realising the entire situation subliminally, knowing without understanding. Petrunin stepped back a single pace. The marksman was bracing himself against the metal frame of the side door; the MiL was absolutely level, completely stationary. The Kalashnikov fired — Hyde saw the spit of flame — and then Hyde fired. The marksman fell through the open door, arms spread, rifle dropping ahead of him. His body thudded onto the snow.

Hyde ran. The MiL lurched away, bursting into flames. One of the surviving Pathans had used the rocket launcher, or else it was a lucky rifle shot. The MiL crashed into the wall of the fort, exploding. In the lurid light, its flames echoing on his retinae, Hyde turned over the body of Petrunin, realising that he had lost everything.

CHAPTER TEN: The Journey to the Border

The block of luxury apartments was no more than a few years old and stood on the east bank of the Rhine, looking across the river towards the old city of Cologne. Even seated in a deep leather armchair, Massinger was still able to glimpse beyond the windows the tops of the cathedral's three spires, sooty and aspiring against the leaden sky. The whisky he had been offered on arrival had made his stomach rumble audibly, and his host had immediately offered to make sandwiches. The plate of neat, afternoon-tea triangles of bread and German sausage now lay between them on the long coffee-table.

Gerhardt Disch was ebullient, clever, alert. Recently retired, he had also become recently widowed. The pictures of his wife — mountains, ski-ing resorts, beaches, the Lower Manhattan skyline behind her — were rather more prominent on the walls and sideboards and cabinets than those of his children and grandchildren. The large, comfortable, warm room was overfilled with heavy furniture, much of it antique, an indication that he had once occupied more spacious premises. There was also an artificial, almost sparkling tidiness about the flat which denoted a fastidious man with too much time to fill. Only one or two concessions had been made to spontaneity, to the continuation of living. Massinger noticed particularly a very old sepiaed enlargement stuck at an angle into the frame of the ornate mirror above the gas fire. A young woman, presumably Disch's late wife, staring into the lens and into strong sunlight; squinting and smiling. Massinger suspected that Disch had found the old photograph when packing or unpacking during his recent move. What was it — first holiday together, honeymoon, just a day trip? Her dress was post-war. Disch himself was only a little over sixty; Massinger guessed his wife had been perhaps a few years younger.

He took one of the tiny sandwiches and bit into it, nodding his compliments. Disch seemed inordinately pleased with the effect of his cuisine upon his guest.

"I believe that Herr Zimmermann has already spoken to you?" Massinger said when he had finished the sandwich.

Disch nodded. "That is correct." His English was good, his accent more pronounced than that of Zimmermann. His voice rumbled. "But only for a moment — and to ask if I would help you. I know Wolf Zimmermann for some years now… I was attached to the Chancellery Security Section, you understand?" Massinger nodded. "Of course, I am pleased if I am able to help." He shook his head lugubriously. "It is a sad thing, what they say of Mr Aubrey — my apologies, Sir Kenneth Aubrey — and, of course, it is ridiculous."

Massinger felt his heart pluck in his chest, as if uplifted by some great sense of relief. Doubt, however, immediately returned.

"Please go on," he said. "I understand you worked with Kenneth in Berlin, after the end of the war."

"Ah — that is what interests you?" Disch's eyes were bright with enquiry. Massinger felt himself studied, weighed. Retirement and bereavement had not dulled the man's professional instincts or abilities. "You are in some doubt about the matter?" Disch asked sharply. "I was not told this."

"I'm sorry, but I thought—" Massinger began. Disch was studying him with a bright, narrow suspiciousness in his eyes. The German raised his hand. "What did Herr Zimmermann say to you?" Massinger persisted.

"Only that you wished to speak to me. He explained who you were, of course. And that you were trying to help your friend, Sir Kenneth Aubrey."

Massinger felt hot with embarrassment; shame, too. Hesitantly, he said, "I am not here under false pretences, Herr Disch." Even to himself, it sounded priggish. He was surprised at the evident loyalty towards Aubrey evinced by the German. It was almost forty years old, and still it had not atrophied. With a cynical amusement, Massinger realised it was the same kind of loyalty that had made him visit Aubrey the morning after the fateful news bulletin.

"I wonder?" Disch said. He brushed his hand over his remaining strands of grey hair. His face was cherubic in complexion and shape, and now it appeared almost froglike with suppressed anger. "Yes, Herr Massinger, I wonder about your motives."

Massinger resisted an explanation, as if he felt the use of Margaret's name and situation would be an evasion. Yet he was not prepared to admit that it was his doubts that must be satisfied. His disloyalty…

"Please tell me about Berlin," he pleaded at last.

Disch continued to study him, then said carefully: "And this will help? It will help Sir Kenneth?" Massinger nodded, his features expressionless. "What will happen to him?" Disch asked then.

Massinger shrugged. "I don't know. With luck — with a great deal of luck, his name perhaps can be cleared. I don't know what will happen then."

"I see." Disch was like a man guarding a precious hoard, suspecting every caller of being a potential thief. He rubbed his round chin and pressed his jowls into froglike enlargements against his collar, as if he had bent his head to watch his visitor over half-glasses. "I see," he repeated softly.

Massinger quelled his irritation and his tension. He received a moment of insight. Behind the bonhomie and the good manners lay the cleverness and the professional training. And those elements of Disch's character were troubled. Massinger's questions posed some kind of threat. There was a secret, then. There was a suspicion hidden in Disch's mind. Of Aubrey…?

Yes. Of Aubrey. Disch had been disloyal in his own way, perhaps only since Zimmermann had spoken to him. Zimmermann had appeared confident, but Massinger had no idea as to Zimmermann's sense of morality. The man was in debt to Aubrey, and wished to repay. He had, perhaps, made allowances, given no weight to what Aubrey might have done in Berlin. But Disch had. Disch knew or suspected something to Aubrey's detriment.

"Please tell me," he prompted.

Disch shrugged expansively, and attempted a smile. "Very well," he said with something like relief. "But Sir Kenneth, I am certain, is innocent of these charges against him — he is not a Russian agent…" He hurried on: "I worked with him again in '74, when he was in Bonn. What the press here and in your country have suggested is nonsense!"

"But, about Berlin?"

Disch nodded, and swallowed. He was obviously burdened.

Massinger should have seen it earlier, played upon it. There was a confessional air about Disch, suddenly.

"Yes, yes," he said almost breathlessly.

"Kenneth was captured in East Berlin and held for some days — then he escaped."

"I believe that he did escape," Disch protested, angry and yet somehow relieved that he was under interrogation. "All other suggestions are nonsense."

"Why did he go to East Berlin? Wasn't it dangerous?" It was difficult to think of Aubrey as a young man, a field agent. It had been his job — a stupid question. "I have been told," he added, "that one of his networks was threatened?"

Disch nodded. "Yes," he said heavily, "we agreed to that."

"Agreed? It wasn't the truth, then?"

Disch shook his head vigorously. "I did not say that—"

"Who agreed?"

"Sir Kenneth — and the others — four of us."

The voice was laden with guilt. Massinger was appalled. What kind of conspiracy was this—?

"Why was it necessary to agree?"

"I do not mean — agree … I mean we — oh, how do you say, we were told by Sir Kenneth that this is why he had to go over… told to say that…" His voice tailed off. There had been turmoil, then. For how long? Forty years, or just since Zimmermann had spoken to Disch?

"Why?"

"For security reasons. It was a cover story — " Disch blurted. "There is nothing unusual in that. It was our cover story from the beginning."

"But why? Why did he go?"

Disch shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The leather squeaked in the tense, warm silence.

"Very well. I persist in believing—" Massinger waved the protestation aside gently. "Yes. The cover story, to protect the real reason for the operation, was that Sir Kenneth suspected a double agent in one of his networks in the Russian Sector…? "Massinger nodded. "You know we also searched for Nazis—?" Disch asked with apparent inconsequentiality.

"Yes."

"That was his real reason."

"But I don't understand, Herr Disch. Why did he need a cover story for such a mission? Everyone was looking for Nazis then."

"I agree. Also many Germans were involved in the hunt — like myself."

"Yes," Massinger admitted awkwardly.

Disch smiled. "You need not worry. My family was killed by the Russians during the bombardment of the city. All of them." He shook his head. "I was twenty-one, and starving. I burned my uniform, and went into hiding. I did not surrender to the Allies until the city had been divided into its four sectors. I was not a Nazi, nor a Communist — though my father was sympathetic until he saw what the Russians were doing to his country and his city. Sir Kenneth found me interned — he questioned me in case I was a Russian plant… then, because I had existed in the Russian Sector for a year, and I knew people, and places, he took me to work for him. He trained me well. Mine was the story of many people — not at all unusual."

"I see. Go on, please."

"The cover story — yes, it was necessary because we had been working — for a long time working — to discover how so many Nazis were still able to escape from Berlin, even from the Russian Zone of my country. Sir Kenneth believed that they received help from inside the Control Commission itself…"

Disch's voice tailed off. His face was red with embarrassment, guilt, suspicion. He wished to say no more.

"Who?" Massinger demanded in a thick voice.

Disch shook his head. "We did not know. But then Sir Kenneth had a message from one of our people in the Russian Sector — some news of the source of the assistance to escaping Nazis inside the Control Commission. The contact could not come over — Sir Kenneth made his arrangements immediately to enter the Russian Sector." Disch shook his head. "He told us when he returned that he had learned nothing. The signal had been no more than a clever trap for him."

Massinger said with disappointment, "Then there was nothing? You don't know anything?" Disch merely shrugged. Then he leaned forward and selected one of the tiny sandwiches. "But — what did Kenneth suspect before he went over?"

"That the man was British, and highly-placed," Disch said hurriedly, mumbling slightly through the bread and sausage in his mouth, using the sandwich as if it would help conceal the truth from Massinger.

Massinger opened his mouth to speak as the implications of Disch's statement struck him. Without the German's evasiveness and Massinger's certainty that the man had his own suspicions, the statement would have meant little or nothing to him.

"British?" he said at last.

Disch's eyes were little more than slits. He nodded. "He was highly-placed. But, Sir Kenneth told us he learned nothing in the Russian Sector, that it was only a trap for him—!"

"You don't believe that, Herr Disch—"

"I am certain that there is no connection—"

"But you do believe it! You think this highly-placed Nazi sympathiser was Castleford and that Aubrey murdered him on his return from the Russian Sector."

"No—!" Disch protested weakly.

"Oh my God, man — you do believe it! Ever since you spoke to Zimmermann, you've been thinking about it." Disch blanched, then nodded. "You do believe it, don't you? That Aubrey killed Castleford because he was helping Nazis to escape? Don't you?"

The central heating plopped in the silence. The room seemed hot. The cathedral spires rose against the grey sky, a sky as bleak and featureless as the landscape of Massinger's imagination.

"Yes," Disch admitted finally in a small, weak voice. "Yes, I believe it."

The second helicopter flicked up and away, its belly luridly reddened by the flames from the first. A fuel tank exploded, and a ball of white flame soared into the air, almost touching the underside of the surviving MiL. The whole of the courtyard was illuminated. Dead Pathans, sporadic movement, Miandad's body, Mohammed Jan's green turban on the snow only yards away. Hyde turned over the body of Petrunin and tugged open the greatcoat and the jacket beneath. There was a spreading stain on the front of his uniform shirt. A thin dribble of blood from the corner of Petrunin's closed mouth. Hyde groaned as if he, too, had been wounded. The flames from the crashed helicopter died down and he almost missed the flickering of the Russian's eyelids. But he saw it, and heard the groan of pain. It was thick, as if coming through a liquid. More blood dribbled across Petrunin's cheek.

Hyde hauled Petrunin into a sitting position, then laid the Russian's weight across his back and heaved himself upright. Petrunin was draped heavily and unmoving — perhaps fainted, perhaps now dead? — in a fireman's lift. Staggering, Hyde jogged at a leaden pace across the courtyard. The spotlight of the second MIL was returning, moving towards the now located source of the rocket that had destroyed its companion. The shooting had almost stopped. Then the four-barrel machine-gun in the nose of the gunship opened up, raking the other side of the courtyard.

Hyde stopped, regained his bearings, shifted Petrunin's weight to greater comfort across his back, and then jogged through the shattered gates of the fort. Immediately, his feet blundered into thicker snow and his breathing became more laboured. His field of vision was restricted, but he saw no soldiers. He was climbing before he fully realised the fact, stamping one precarious and tired footstep ahead of the next, his face bent almost to the snow under his burden. He heard a groan, but sensed no movement through Petrunin's body. Fire lit the snow around him, dimly and fadingly. He thought he could hear orders shouted above the noise of his heart and breathing, but he could not be certain it was not his own voice urging him to greater effort. The light on the snow had vanished, and he realised he was in the trees above the fort. He leaned their combined weights against the rough bole of a fir, then let the Russian's body slide into a sitting position while he rested, hands on his knees, dragging in lungfuls of freezing air. When he turned his head, Petrunin seemed to be watching him sightlessly and Hyde could only wish it had been Miandad still alive and whom he had carried out of the fort. It might have been his hatred that caused the trembling in his limbs, or simply weakness. Blood stained Petrunin's chin. Hyde knelt by him, holding him upright, his hand at his back. It felt sticky, and he realised that the bullet had passed through the Russian's body. He realised, too, that the bullet had punctured one of Petrunin's lungs and that the man was going to die.

He studied the terrain below him. Figures moved in the light of the hovering helicopters — there were two of them again now — checking bodies. There were three Pathans in turbans in the centre of the courtyard. He heard clearly on the cold air the shots that killed them. The helicopter which had crashed had almost burned out. He counted more than twenty Russian troops, disregarding however many the two MiLs carried. He returned his attention to Petrunin, who had turned his head slightly and was looking directly into Hyde's face. The Russian tried to smile, but only coughed blood. Hyde wiped the man's chin slowly and delicately with the sleeve of his loose blouse. The blood, he saw, stained his sleeve almost up to the elbow. Petrunin was dying.

Petrunin nodded, as if he guessed at Hyde's thoughts.

"They had orders to kill you," Hyde said. "You're right in the shit now, just like me." Again, Petrunin nodded. "They wouldn't take the slightest chance, would they? Not with your bloody Teardrop. As soon as someone laid hands on you, that's all that worried them — stop you from talking at all costs." Hyde was breathing heavily again, and leaning towards the Russian. Then he stood up. "Oh, fuck it," he growled. He looked back down at Petrunin. "Do you want to go on living — or stay here?"

Petrunin held up one limp hand. Hyde knelt by him. Then he said, "Drop them in the shit, sport. Tell me about Teardrop." Petrunin shook his head, in the slightest but most definite of movements. Hyde glared at him, then shrugged. There was no time, now. Later, perhaps—

He dragged Petrunin's arms across his back, hefted the body — Petrunin groaned once and immediately became deadweight — across his shoulders, and rose from his squat. He staggered under the weight and the sudden assault of his own weariness, then he began climbing again, one foot slowly and carefully and numbly placed in front of the other; one, two, three, four, five, six seven…

Skirting trees, resting every twenty steps, then fifteen, then twelve, as he climbed into the darkness and silence of the forest. Often, he had to drop Petrunin's unconscious body into the snow and rest, waiting until the shaking weakness left his limbs and he could return his breathing to something like normal. Then, after checking the fluttering, fading pulse and the amount of blood soaking the uniform, he would heft him up again and continue his climb.

Two hundred and forty-three… four, five, six… seven… eight — nine, ten… eleven… He dropped the body again. When he had recovered sufficiently to look around him, the fort was invisible, and the forest was lightless and quiet. Distantly, he heard the rotors of a helicopter, moving in what might have been another world or time. It hardly impinged upon his awareness, and occasioned no sense of danger in him. His body was capable only of feeling weakness, of resenting the weight that burdened it. Hyde was incapable of emotion.

Seven hundred and sixty-two, three… one thousand-fifty, no, seventy, eighty-three… twelve hundred and eighty-three… four… four… five — six… Three thousand forty-one… One, two, three — six, seven…

Hyde lurched and fell. The trees were smaller, more straggling, upside-down. Something soft was falling on his face and hands. He crawled, clawing with his hands, pushing with his feet. He touched snow, pulled at it as at a lifeline, felt rock beneath, clung to it as if on some vertical cliff-face.

He drifted… attended… drifted — woke. His breathing was calmer, his body numb. Petrunin lay, staring upwards a few yards from him on the gentle slope. He had noticed nothing of the changing terrain. The thinner trees were stunted by altitude. Hyde turned on his back. Rock hung over him, a great shelf blacker than the sky. It frightened him before it slowly assumed the properties of safety and hiding. He listened. His fading heartbeat, his breathing, the soughing of the wind, the call of an animal. Then, silence. What was missing? What noise—?

There was no noise of rotors. His hands beat the snow at his sides in applause. Of course—! No helicopters. No noise. He could not consider his luck, or his direction, or why his footsteps had not been discovered. He looked at his snow-covered body, and licked his wet face. He blinked. There were no stars. Cloud—?

It was snowing. He hadn't realised until a gust of wind had blown the snow under the overhang and onto his face. He raised his head. Petrunin was slowly being whitened by the snow, as with a shroud.

Shroud—

Hyde got to his knees and crawled swiftly, scrabblingly across to Petrunin, shaking him by the lapels the moment he reached him. Cough, blood, eyelids flickering…

"Come on, you bastard!" Hyde breathed fiercely. "Get out of the bloody snow, you tit!" He giggled to himself as he dragged Petrunin under the overhang. He propped him against the rock, and pulled his greatcoat tightly about him, in part to hide the bloodstained shirt. Petrunin's face was white, drawn. He was dying, was already close to death.

Failure filled Hyde, as if his exhausted body was a bay that had simply waited for the tide of that emotion to engulf it. The one man who understood Teardrop, who had created it, was dying at his side; bleeding to death with absolute certainty. Hyde could do nothing.

He clenched his hands into fists he could not feel, not even his nails digging into his palms. Cold or exhaustion, he could not tell. He could distinguish nothing except the sharp edges of the rock at his back and the curtain of snow falling, swaying in the gusts, moving aside, falling again. He could do nothing…

Except listen—

Petrunin was talking. His voice sounded calm, without delirium, but it was weak and interrupted by coughing. Hyde tore part of the tail of his blouse away and wiped at the man's chin after each bout of coughing. It was as if the words were mouthfuls of pureed baby food and the piece of cloth a means of removing any the baby did not swallow. Petrunin stared at the curtain of snow that must have hidden their tracks from the pursuit and was concealing them now, and spoke. It was evident he knew he was dying.

"I hate this place," Petrunin was saying. Rather, his voice spoke; it was somehow separate from the man, almost the last surviving particle of him. The tone was tired, detached, almost affected. Hyde would have dismissed it, in other circumstances, as a lack of resource in a mediocre actor. "I hate this place." It was evident that he had repeated the phrase over and over again, until it caught his companion's attention. "I hate this place…"

"Yes," Hyde said quietly.

It seemed sufficient, for Petrunin's strange, calm, objective voice continued: "I hate to end like this… I know I'm dying, Hyde. I know…" He coughed a small, polite cough. Hyde wiped the little dribble of blood from the Russian's chin. "I am so — so angry…" It was the weary anger of a corpse. Yet Hyde knew the depth of Petrunin's feelings would have wracked a healthy body. He did not look at the Russian, merely nodded. He felt himself slipping into sleep, in and out of shallow, cold water. He shook his head and sat upright, pressing his back against the sharp creases in the rock. Petrunin's hand was waving feebly towards the swinging curtain of the snowfall. "Out there — a shithouse, Hyde. Like nothing you would know…" He had spoken in English as he gestured, but his voice was as expressionless as that of a translation machine. Alternately, he spoke English and Russian, at times dividing the same sentence or phrase between the two languages. "Like nothing I've known…"

Hyde knew time was slipping away as surely as Petrunin was moving towards his final evasion. Yet he could not interrogate the man, not even point his monologue in a more fruitful direction. Petrunin might simply give up, die the moment he was interrupted. Hyde had no idea how long remained. He was angry, and yet he simply listened.

"So many bodies — no rules…oh, yes, they knew what they were doing—" Hyde wiped the man's chin. The face was grey, the teeth outlined by a dark mascara of blood. Hyde looked away. Petrunin continued, thickly: "Kapustin and Nikitin and the smug, smiling, certain others — they knew what they were doing. The boy has got too smart, too big for his boots — let's drop him right in the shit…" There was a grey self-pity in the voice now, though its tone was still remote. "Let's send the smart-ass to Afghanistan. It might even save us a bullet!" Hyde wiped at the man's chin, but there was only a little blood. He began to worry now that the blood would stop, that the final internal haemorrhaging would begin, drowning Petrunin before his narrative was ended. He had changed from shock into the costume of self-pity. Hyde could only wonder when he would become more confidential, ready for another voice; needing company, needing comfort.

"Two years — two years I survived it… God — do you know how much I learned about killing, about slaughter, about mutilation—! And the rebels taught me everything. I threw up the first time I saw a patrol of ours that had been attacked by rebels…" No coughing; nothing but a loud, choking swallow. "Napalm, burn them like rats, like dark things in corners, like lice… you can burn them all if you can find them…"

"Jesus wept," Hyde breathed, but it might have been no more than impatience which prompted him. Snow flurried in a quicker wind and dusted them. Hyde tasted it, then smeared it across his face as if to wash, to freshen himself. His beard rasped. Its growth seemed more than a mere stubble; a change of identity. Petrunin, too, had suffered change. Yes, they had known what they were doing when they sent him into exile, to Kabul.

"You could burn them all if you could find them, if you had enough napalm," Petrunin repeated. "Kapustin — I can see his cunning peasant's face now — sitting on Nikitin's left, telling me I had overreached myself…" His English was more regular now; its tone more clipped, educated, as if the man were reverting to some former, more urbane self as he died.

"Come on," Hyde whispered. The snow-curtain swayed, flickered, swayed, fell.

Overreached… even then, he must have been patting Teardrop on the head like a newly-adopted son… even then — peasant. His hissing voice was interrupted by coughing. Hyde almost covered his mouth with the bloodstained piece of shirt, suppressing the spillage. Hyde's lips moved silently, as if he were praying. Eventually, Petrunin's heaving chest subsided. When Hyde removed the cloth, the Russian's cheeks and chin were smeared with darker patches and stripes; an animal mask resembling the symbols that had decorated his blood-red helicopter as it hovered over the burning tribesmen. Hyde sat back, and almost at once his weariness made him close his eyes. He jolted back to wakefulness, his eyes staring at the falling snow. His boots and trousers were covered by a thin white blanket. He heard Petrunin's teeth chattering, and knew he could not let the man wander in the landscape of his self-pity any longer.

In Russian, he said with studied deference: "They did badly by you, Comrade General — those Party hacks." The words were out almost before he could consider and weigh them; yet he knew they were right. He remembered Massinger's voice from the rear of the Mercedes, interrogating the Vienna Rezident. Something like that — a last delusion for the dying man, drugged by his wound. "You're right, sir — peasants, all of them."

There was a long silence, then he heard Petrunin's remote, quiet voice. "You want to know, don't you?" he said. "Hyde? You're here to find out — aren't you?"

"Yes," Hyde could not help admitting. Somehow, the proximity of Petrunin's death disarmed him.

Petrunin laughed; coughed, so that Hyde plucked up the piece of cloth at once; continued to laugh. His amusement seemed as deep as his bitterness, as deep as his inhumanity.

"Why not?" he said finally. "Why not?" Then, after a long pause: "Why not indeed?"

Hyde glanced up at the overhang of the rock as if at the sky. His hands clenched at his sides with the relief of tension.

"It had to be your idea," he said. "So bloody devious."

"You didn't know — you found out, but you didn't guess?"

"No."

"Good. But yes, it was my idea. I created Teardrop. Kapustin merely stole it. After he failed to rescue me — let me drown in front of Nikitin in the juice of my failure — he simply came along and picked the whole thing up."

"Why?"

"Why? Because the time was right, that's why. Aubrey was head of the service — the time was right. For everyone in Moscow Centre, the time was right. And sweet…" The tone of Petrunin's voice was thin and faint, like the distant sounds of a boy treble rising from a hidden choir. Unearthly. Yet there was a satisfaction that even his closeness to death could not diminish. His scheme had ended Aubrey's career in disgrace. Petrunin's revenge was complete. The high faint tone of the voice was like a long amen. Petrunin seemed at peace.

"But — just for revenge? You created it just for Aubrey's disgrace?" Hyde's words resonated with disappointment.

"Not Aubrey — sweet, though. Anyone. The Director-General of the time… there were other scenarios… but the best, the best belonged to Aubrey. Everything fitted… and 1946 was a bonus. Oh, I was an avid reader of Aubrey's biography. I know more about him than anyone on earth — even himself, perhaps. Sweet…"

"Why? What was the real reason?" Hyde persisted. The curtain of snow seemed lighter now, almost transparent. Petrunin was silent for a long time. Hyde felt very cold, especially numbed in his left arm and shoulder. Then he realised that it was Petrunin's weight leaning against his side. The man's eyes were closed, his jaw was slack, and his lips hung open amid the stripes and stains of the smeared, dried blood. Hyde groaned aloud; almost a wail. He shook the body by the shoulders, but Petrunin's eyelids did not flicker.

Then Hyde heard the distant noise of a helicopter.

Wolfgang Zimmermann felt a curious gratitude that Margaret Massinger seemed so willing to immerse herself in the sheafs of reports and surveillance digests he had given her. He was aware that the woman was somehow keeping herself in check, as if turning her past lightly page by page, an album of old photographs to which she gave hardly any of her attention; someone else's snapshots, another person's history. She seemed determined that the work should occupy her.

Zimmermann felt that Margaret understood he did not believe Aubrey to be innocent of the death of her father. He had struggled to conceal the truth of his guesses and suspicions when she questioned him about Disch, but the woman was perceptive, keen-eyed for proof of Aubrey's guilt. He did not think he had masked his intuitions sufficiently to deceive her. He did not wish to believe Aubrey guilty, but Castleford's execution as a closet Nazi helping war criminals to escape did not contradict his knowledge of Aubrey's character. He surreptitiously glanced at his watch. They had been working for almost two hours since lunch, and Massinger still had not returned. Zimmermann almost dreaded his arrival.

Margaret saw, from the corner of her eye, Zimmermann's tiny movements as he turned his wrist to check his watch. She did not look up. Paul — what had Paul learned? Was he afraid to come back? Did he know—? She ground her teeth, certain that the noise was audible, and pressed all thought of her father into the back of her mind. Most of the time — especially whenever she reminded herself of the danger that threatened Paul — she was able to believe that concern over the truth of her father's death had become less important to her. But, at moments when she was off-guard, as when Zimmermann consulted his watch, it leapt at her with unabated strength. Yet she had to suppress it, had to—

"I — excuse me, Wolf…" Zimmermann looked up and smiled. Her German was grammatical, stiff, well-learned, and recently unused. "I–I've made a list of what you could call — absences without leave during the period from February to April '74. There are a lot of them."

She stretched forward, arm extended. Zimmermann, too, leaned towards the coffee-table, and took the sheet of notepaper. He inspected it, nodding and shaking his head in turn. Then he looked up.

"I agree. It is a poor comment on the protection we offered our guests. Yes, I'm afraid there was a great deal of time unaccounted for by SIS personnel during those weeks." He sighed. "A pity — whether we can check very much of it after so much time, I'm not sure." He pondered, then asked: "Do you detect a pattern here?"

Margaret shook her head. "Some were greater offenders than others — I've starred their names. Mostly night-times are unaccounted for." She smiled. "Might it mean anything?"

"Possibly. We must try."

"And you? Have you found anything?" Her gaze was direct, almost fierce. Guiltily, he glanced down at the heap of files balanced on his lap. He had kept Aubrey's material for his own examination — his movements, contacts, debriefing, subsequent debriefmgs of those assigned to his protection from the BfV. In it, as he had expected, he had found nothing. He shook his head gently, wisely. Margaret's features pursed at the patronising mannerism.

"No, I have not. I did not expect to," Zimmermann said coldly in response to her expression. The woman's suspicions were suddenly irritating, stupid. "What may or may not have happened in 1946 has nothing to do with 1974, or with now," he said pedantically. "I am certain of that. There is nothing here to link Aubrey with Guillaume or anyone else."

"Do you say that only because you are in his debt, Herr Zimmermann?"

"I do not," he replied angrily. "I am in his debt, greatly so. That is true. But it is not true to make it an accusation. Do you forget that you and your husband are perhaps both in danger? He certainly is. The man is here somewhere, in this maze, in all this old paper. Your father is dead — he had been dead for almost forty years… your husband is alive."

Margaret's face had reddened. She clenched her hands in her lap. "You don't have to lecture me, Herr Zimmermann."

"My apologies."

"I–I'm sorry…it — it's just that it's so hard to help the man who might have killed my father—!"

"Then help your husband!"

"Very well! What do you want me to do?"

Zimmermann stood up, clutching the sheaf of files in both hands. He threw them onto the sofa beside her. "Here! You think that man killed your father — you find something against him. I can't! The reason I can't is that there is nothing to find." Zimmermann was visibly trembling as he stood in front of her. She confronted a passion for truth as fierce as her own.

She disregarded the files on Aubrey. "I'm sorry — I'll carry on with — with my own work, here…"

"As you wish," Zimmermann observed coldly, turning away from her and walking to the window. The snow had stopped, but more threatened from the heavy sky. Zimmermann was angry with himself for losing his temper. Margaret Massinger was under a great strain.

He almost turned to apologise, but could not. Better to leave her, for the moment, to recover herself. He heard her shuffling through papers, and knew that she would not now look, even glance, at the Aubrey material. In a moment, he should get back to it—

Where was Massinger?

He prevented himself from looking once more at his watch. It was already beginning to get dark outside. The barges were like long black slugs on the grey path of the Rhine. No, there was one with washing hung out even in this dreary, freezing weather — a line of it like naval signals of greeting or distress.

Where was Massinger?

Nerves took hold of Zimmermann, unformed but gathering fears. He should have provided the man with an escort, with protection.

Margaret Massinger was speaking.

"What—?" he asked abruptly.

"I didn't realise that Andrew Babbington was in Bonn during that period," she repeated, undisturbed by his tone.

"Oh — yes, he headed the team of interrogating officers that MI5 sent over, a few days after Guillaume was arrested," Zimmermann replied absently, watching the barge, flying its signals of colourful washing, move upriver towards the Kennedybrücke.

"No, he was here before that," Margaret continued. "Some internal investigation in the Chancery section of the British embassy — misappropriation of funds, it says here."

Zimmermann turned from the window. "That is not unusual…" he began with heavy humour.

The door opened, and Paul appeared.

"Well?" Margaret asked breathlessly, almost at once. Zimmermann saw the certainty on Massinger's face, and quailed inwardly. He doubted he could help save Aubrey by helping them. Massinger believed in Aubrey's guilt, that much was evident; just as it was evident he wished to conceal that conviction from his wife. "What did you find out?" she asked ominously.

Massinger laid his raincoat across the back of a chair and sat beside her. The man seemed to have no masks left; Zimmermann could see that any effort at deception would fail miserably.

"It's no more than speculation," he began.

"What is?" Margaret snapped.

"Your father — it's a crazy, wild guess — Aubrey was wrong, I'm certain of it…"

"What?" Her tone was icy.

Zimmermann turned once more to the window. The barge with its hoisted washing was slipping beneath the Kennedybrücke now, bereft of colour. No more than another black slug on grey.

It had begun to snow once more. He remembered that Massinger's grey hair had sparkled with wetness when he came through the door. Zimmermann wished to excuse himself, he was inwardly hunched against Massinger's reply. He refused to listen to it, nonsense that it was… a fate deserved. If true, Aubrey had known, would have been sure.

"No—!" Margaret almost screamed. "No, no, no, no!" The stain was too great, the smear. What Zimmermann had divined from his own conversation with Disch had become clear to Massinger, too. Perhaps Disch himself, on reflection, had also come to believe it. Now, Margaret Massinger was trying to reject the suspicion they all shared. Not that — above all, not that… Her father could not be at one with the mass-murderers of the six million, the maniacs, the slaughterers, the deformed, the misfits, the thugs and torturers — not them! Zimmermann, as a German, could not but resent the horror in her voice, even as he sympathised with her.

She was sobbing now, he was murmuring useless comforts, having caused her distress. Zimmermann had hoped Disch might have concealed what he suspected, but had not believed he would.

"No, no, no, no…" she was murmuring.

Stop, he thought. Stop it. It was useless to suspect, more pointless to believe, most futile to know. It was almost forty years ago. She had to shake it off — both of them had to exorcise her father's ghost. It might be a matter of life and death — theirs…

Snow, snail-tracks once more on the window, long slow barges, the steely river — the barge with the washing, and her words at that point, just before the barge slipped out of sight beneath and beyond the bridge…?

Babbington. Sir Andrew Babbington. The Director-General of MI5.

Read the will, he thought. When the body is discovered in the library and the rich old lady is pronounced murdered, read the will— Who has most to gain? Who benefits? Who becomes rich?

He smiled. Margaret's sobs and the soft, coaxing words of her husband no longer impinged upon him. He felt only an impatience to study the files.

Babbington… read the will, Inspector, read the will…

Sir Kenneth Aubrey could think of nothing other than the destruction of the journal in Clara Elsenreith's possession. The idea of its continued existence was frightening and painful to him, but all other thought frightened and pained him more. Beyond the destruction of his confession to Castleford's murder lay nothing. An empty landscape. Perhaps he could hide with Clara for days, even weeks. After that, however, there was nothing. Only his disappearance, an act of willed disguise, anonymity, denial of his former self. He would have to find somewhere to skulk as Herr Jones, or Monsieur Smith or Signer Smith or Senor Jones for the rest of his life. He could never be Kenneth Aubrey again.

One of the Frenchmen who shared his compartment had removed his shoes and stretched his legs. His socks smelt in the over-warm, dry atmosphere. The sleeping child in the farthest corner of the compartment murmured, shifted. Her mother adjusted her arms about her. The express was less than an hour from Strasbourg. He would be in Vienna the following day.

The French newspapers carried nothing concerning his disappearance from England. Evidently, it had not been made public. There were stories, of course; peculiar and witty Gallic cruelties regarding himself, British Intelligence, Britain itself. But nothing of his current whereabouts. The secrecy did not comfort him. Instead, he saw it as a signpost on the road towards his inevitable disappearance into another identity. Already, the press had lost sight of him, and that was only the beginning. Unlike the traitors, for him there wasn't even a Moscow where he could arrive in safety and remain himself.

All he was able to do was to destroy the written evidence of his guilt. There was nothing better or more or greater to hope for. The early edition of France-Soir, which he had bought in Paris, lay still opened on his lap. Mitterand was in London to see the PM concerning the EEC budget and the CAP — again. He could read the headline and the caption to the photograph suddenly in the brief, fleeting lights of a country station. The tired familiarity of the wrangle hurt with a physical sensation of pain in his chest. He — he, Kenneth Aubrey, might have been calling to brief the PM not an hour after the talks with Mitterand had ended — or the next day, or the day after that…

Now, he would never do that again.

He did not love power — no, he resisted that insinuating accusation that popped out of the darkness at the back of his mind. No… but it had been forty-five years since he had begun to serve his country, since he had begun to be the person he thought himself to be. Now, he had to relinquish that country, that person.

Brainwashing experiments, he thought suddenly in an irrational, unnerving way. Suspension of the body from buoyant slings in tepid water. In no more than days, one was left with a clean sheet. The utter absence of physical sensation completely erased the personality. No memory, no opinions, no person. It had begun to happen to him.

The express rattled over points, swayed, then clicked on into the winter night. The lights of another country station. A railway employee — some guard or porter or station-master or signalman — had watched the train pass. Aubrey recognised that he might become that anonymous man past whom the world would rush and disappear into the distance.

Tears pricked his tired eyes. Sleep would not come. The odour of the Frenchman's socks mingled with that of half-melted sweets from the opposite corner of the compartment.

Petrunin's eyes opened. They seemed, impossibly, to fall open rather than be revealed by the raising of the eyelids. The man's face was drawn and grey, but the only visible blood on his face was old and dry. Hyde's breath escaped in a ragged, elongated moan of relief. The noise of the helicopter had returned and then had faded once more as he had sat hunched against the man he thought was dead, his head listening for some betraying heartbeat against the wetness of Petrunin's blouse. It had almost stopped snowing. Hyde could see the black sticks of the nearest stunted trees against the whiteness of the ground. But Petrunin was alive — just.

"Why?" Hyde said at once, seeing that the Russian's eyes remained unfocused, inward-staring. "What was the reason for it?"

Petrunin was silent for a long time. The wind whispered, puffing snow under the lee of the overhang. Hyde was numb with cold. Then the Russian muttered in the remote voice that had become familiar to Hyde: "I don't — want to be remembered as the butcher of Kabul." It was uninflected, passionless yet full of self-pity. Hyde had not reached the place where what remained of Petrunin had retreated. "I don't want to be remembered as the butcher of Kabul," Petrunin repeated exactly. Hyde did not think it was even a nickname he had been given. He was describing the state of his self-knowledge.

"Why?" Hyde shouted. "Why did you need Teardrop?"

"I was being used, even then," Petrunin said, disconcerting Hyde. "In 1941, during the nine hundred days…" His voice tailed off. Hyde had no idea what he meant. "Even then, scouting, carrying messages… I was no more than a boy — thirteen when the war began… they've had me in their pockets since I was thirteen… since Leningrad…"

Hyde was chilled by this glimpse into Petrunin's past. As little more than a boy, he had experienced the privations and terrors of the German siege of Leningrad which had last nine hundred days.

"Yes," he said.

"In their pockets… their man, their thing …"

"But — why?"

Something reminded Hyde to attend to the reality beyond the tiny huddle of himself and Petrunin. Silence, except for the quiet soughing of the wind. The snow was still falling, but more lightly. He could not hear the helicopter's rotors.

Petrunin did not answer his question. Instead, his cold, remote voice said, "Leningrad…" It was a sigh. Its meaning had become a talisman for Petrunin which perhaps protected him against memories of the more recent past. Hyde felt himself totally identified with the Russian, a fellow-conspirator in a world of enemies. The identification was so close that Hyde could not envisage the border or foresee his escape.

"Why?" he asked again softly and without hope of any reply.

"Why?" Petrunin repeated. "Why?" He spoke in English once more, a sharper, more amused tone in his voice. "To place him — to place our man at the apex, the pinnacle… whenever we wished. When the time…" A slight cough interrupted Petrunin. His eyes closed as if to eradicate pain. Hyde looked at him. Only minutes now. Then Petrunin seemed to gather a new, urgent strength. "The time was right," he announced. "Sir William was the — the Chairman of JIC, he had your Prime Minister's ear… your new service, combining intelligence and security, could be set up now—! The time was right… and sweet…" He coughed, then added: "For our man…"

Hyde heard only that last phrase, as Petrunin's voice faded like a poor radio signal.

Their man. Hyde felt himself shivering uncontrollably. The answer was a moment, one more sentence away, and the realisation of its proximity made him understand his surroundings and his situation more deeply. Once he had the knowledge, he had to stay alive, get out—

"Who?" he asked, but before he received an answer he had pressed his palm against Petrunin's mouth. The Russian's eyes widened. Hyde could not be certain the Russian could see the soldier moving slowly across the snow, forty yards from them, clothed in winter combat camouflage, Kalashnikov carried across his chest, snowshoes lifting and clumping and flattening the snow.

Hyde felt Petrunin's lips moving against the cold flesh of his palm. It might have been the name of the traitor, it might have been a protest at being gagged. It might have been some last, futile epithet. Hyde clamped his hand more firmly over Petrunin's mouth as the soldier continued to pass across their field of vision.

CHAPTER ELEVEN: Arriving

Two more soldiers came out of the stunted trees, bobbing into view as they climbed the last of the shallow slope. Both of them, rifles angled across their white-clad chests, appeared to be walking straight towards Hyde and Petrunin, able to make out their huddled shapes beneath the overhang. Petrunin's body slumped against Hyde once more, almost into an embrace, and Hyde knew the man was still alive because his lips kept murmuring soundlessly against his palm. His hand was warmed by the faint breathing of the Russian, but it was a fitful breeze, threatening to disappear each time it tickled his palm.

The first soldier passed out of sight and his two companions moved after him. Their exaggerated steps sifted and fluffed the light snow. There was no sound of any helicopter. Petrunin was shivering against him. Ten seconds, fifteen, twenty, a minute… time elongated. Hyde wanted to cry out, to scream as the nerves tautened all over his body; as if the cold had left him cramped and maddened with pins-and-needles. A minute and a half…

They stopped, casting about. Hyde was convinced that he could see, with vivid clarity, the slight depressions left by his laboured footsteps in the snow. He thought he could make out the shallow trough where he had slithered, dragging the Russian, towards the overhang. It must be clear to the soldiers—

They moved off, as if half-afraid of being left too far behind their companion. Hyde's breathing rushed in his ears. He could hear his heart, just feel Petrunin's shallow, irregular breathing. Out of sight, out of sight — go on, go on…

Another few yards, yes, three, two, another step…

They were gone. He heard one of them call after the first soldier. He heard the quickening slither of their snowshoes.

Now, the snow beyond the overhang looked smooth and undimpled except where they had walked. Gently, as if in apology, Hyde removed his hand from Petrunin's mouth. The lips were still working soundlessly, not so much searching for words as for an expression — perhaps a smile.

"Your man?" Hyde asked. "Who is he?"

"Babbington," Petrunin replied after the smallest hesitation. His lips found something like acceptance, then the name, finally a smile. "Babbington!"

"Christ — then it's worked!"

"Of course." The voice was remote again, but in a superior, Olympian manner. "Of course."

"Jesus-bloody-Christ," Hyde breathed. "Him?"

"Him."

"When — how long, for Christ's sake—?"

Petrunin waved his hand dismissively, weakly, as if he considered Hyde was wasting the little time left with the wrong questions. "A long story," he murmured. "It always is. Now — what will you do?"

Hyde rubbed his face. "God knows."

Petrunin cackled, and coughed. No blood, but his head lolled as if his body were sinking in something; or filling. His whole form lolled. Ballast shifting, Hyde thought, then: Nothing … I don't have … not even paper, no tape, no record, nothing…

It was if the Russian could read his thoughts. "You see?" he asked. "You have no proof. You have nothing. You cannot even escape, I think…" He leaned back, as if trying to sink into the rock. His face was colourless, his eyes, unfocused, studied the rock above their heads.

"Then help me," Hyde replied desperately. "Help me to screw the bastards. Help me screw the people who want you dead — who've already done for you." He leaned his head towards Petrunin until their faces almost touched. He could feel no breath from the Russian warming his cheek. "Help me. They've killed you. Help me spoil their bloody game."

"How?" Petrunin asked, and then the realisation of what Hyde had said gripped him. He was afraid. Even knowing, he had not wished to hear it pronounced. Hyde had sentenced him. "No—" he spluttered. Blood poured from his lips, staining his chin, staining Hyde. It felt warm, ugly and final. Hyde gripped the Russian's arms, almost hugging him like a lover.

"Come on, you clever, clever bastard — where's the proof? Tell me where the proof is and I'll spoil their fucking game for them. Come on…" He was holding Petrunin now, the man's head against him, mouth pressed to Hyde's ear. Wet. His chin was resting on Hyde's shoulder. "Come on," the Australian whispered urgently, afraid of time unravelling utterly in the next few moments. Only minutes now — less perhaps…

"It's all on computer — you couldn't get hold of it… only I could do that — from — from inside a Soviet embassy…" Hyde groaned. He wanted to push Petrunin's body away from him in protest, but some instinct made him hold on. Or perhaps it was merely sympathy. Petrunin, unnoticing and undeterred, continued to murmur against Hyde's ear. His lips were frothily wet. Hyde shuddered. His stomach felt hollow with loathing and disappointment.

Babbington was unassailable — he was British Intelligence, just as Aubrey had been. Hyde had nothing. In itself, without proof, the knowledge was worthless, futile. Babbington was the man in the high castle; impenetrable. Petrunin continued, as if with some litany of confession. It was evident, in his remote and inhuman whisper, that he was mocking Hyde even as he wished him to know and to be able to do something. Revenge and amusement.

"Access is strictly limited," he said. "You would have to be me to get it. Understand — understand? Only I can get hold of it — you would have to be me! Understand?"

"Yes." Hyde did not understand.

"I–I have it on file, hidden in the computer… I saw the advantage of having an, an, an insurance policy… I suborned a programmer to create a secret file, stored under their very noses… everything's in it — dirt, operations, even your precious Teardrop — my precious Teardrop … do you understand me?"

"Yes." Hyde still did not understand. He simply accepted that he must listen to Petrunin until he could speak no more. Hold the man until he felt the final slump of his body into bonelessness.

"Access is from any remote terminal linked to Moscow Centre… in any embassy abroad or in the Eastern bloc… if you knew each of the passwords, you could find it. Only I know them — only me…" He paused, his body shifted violently, as if some last part of his human cargo had shifted in a storm. He sat more upright, and his face appeared haunted. He could see the end now, and must race his own collapsing body. "I killed the programmer, of course, for security — before they sent me here … it was to be my insurance, even my ticket to the West… I would have been the most valuable defector on earth, with just a computer cassette…"

His voice was lower now, but quicker, urgent. "Listen to me, listen… you must access Assignment Histories in the Personnel Files of the computer… access my file…" He paused, his eyes flickered open and closed against Hyde's cheek, as if he were trying to focus his gaze. Or remember. Then he said: "There are passwords to remember before that — listen. Listen… access to the Main Menu is by the password — K-2-U-7 — stroke — R-S-4-K… repeat it to me!" Hyde did so, then to himself once more. Yes… "To Personnel, access is by another password, letters and numbers again… C-7-3-5 — stroke — D-W — stroke — P-R-X… repeat that…" Petrunin sighed with what might have been exhaustion, or satisfaction, as Hyde repeated the password. "Good, good…" Petrunin's hand patted against Hyde's shoulder with the force of falling snow. "Assignment Histories has the password White Nights — White… Russian, White Bear, without a break… after that, you request my assignment history. Then — then use my last three postings, in reverse order — reverse order, without a break, to access the secret file. You, you — a poem appears next — it looks like a corrupted data file, it's meant to put people off… don't cancel it! — let it run, all fourteen lines… to a girl I once knew… then, out comes everything — everything…"

He paused, expecting Hyde to reply. Hyde did not understand anything beyond the urgency of the communication. Yet he memorised it. Like a recorder, he would be able to reproduce the information, if requested. If he ever talked to someone who understood.

"There is — is a short-cut to Teardrop… short-cuts to everything… wouldn't have much time, perhaps, to cut and run… had to be sure I could get at the juiciest… Teardrop espec — ially… short-cut—!" He cried out, as if he saw an enemy approaching. Hyde flinched, almost turning to check his back. Petrunin began coughing. Hyde's neck and cheek were wet, slimy. "No, no—!"

"Short-cut—" Hyde prompted, shaking Petrunin's arms lightly.

Petrunin's right hand was tapping at Hyde's shoulderblade furiously, emphasising words that the Australian could not hear.

Then his hands scrabbled for a finger-hold on Hyde's sheepskin jacket as if clinging at the edge of an abyss. His voice bubbled.

"Short-cut… short… cut… shor… cu — 't…"

"Yes, yes!"

Petrunin's body slumped against Hyde, boneless and then rigid almost at once. As if he had been dead for hours, frozen stiff. Hyde pressed him back against the rock. His mouth was still daubed with blood, his chin darkly-painted. Smears on his cheeks and neck. His forehead was white and dead. His hands were still shaped into claws.

Powerless. His information was as dead as Petrunin. Every Soviet embassy, anywhere in the world. The only places to have access to the main computer system in Moscow Centre. It was hopeless. Pointless and hopeless. He was almost pleased that Petrunin was dead, that the effort had shortened his life, even if only by minutes.

Yet he felt a curious reluctance to release the body, as if his chilled hands had somehow become frozen to the material of Petrunin's greatcoat. The Russian stared lifelessly at him, and past him at the still falling snow and the stunted trees. Then Hyde removed his hands and the body slid a little sideways, to loll untidily like a forgotten toy against the rock. Hyde breathed deeply a number of times, then crawled out from beneath the overhang. The wind and snow against his face were fresh rather than icy. He felt himself waking from a light trance, disorientated and suddenly fearful of this strange place. He remained on his hands and knees, like a dog sniffing the air. He could not hear the soldiers, but there was a distant noise of helicopter rotors, an indistinct buzzing like that of a television left on after the last programme had finished.

Instinct rescued him before noises alerted him. Instinct, or memory. He remembered what had been called out by the last of the three soldiers who had passed their hiding place. Something about distance, about the limit of their patrol, about the time and about reporting in…

He shook his head but could not recall the words. His subconscious mind, however, had remarked a sense of limit, or return …

They would be returning—

Hyde scrambled to his feet. Dying images of sympathy for Petrunin faded in his mind. The man who wanted to bomb and burn his way back to favour in Moscow, the man who had had to face the wild animal in himself, the shadow of the urbane, intelligent, over-proud man. He began to move on sluggish, almost-giving-way, cramped limbs. He blundered like a drunk, staggered, then began to achieve locomotion. The details of Petrunin's description of Teardrop became unimportant the moment he heard the first voice — a backward glance and call for someone to hurry which almost at once became a yell of surprise and command and delight. He heard the scratch of a transmitter being switched on, then a gabble of Russian as his position was relayed. He ran through the deep snow at the edge of the clearing, labouring almost at once as the slope steepened above the overhang. Sounds came to him, the cry of discovery, the yell of orders to pursue, the more distant and inhuman noise of a reply from the R/T the first soldier was using. He was bent almost double, knees coming up beneath his chin, hands jabbing down into the soft snow at every step to stabilise his leaden charge up the slope. Dwarf trees crowded around him, as if he were scuttling through a toy forest. Snow flew as he brushed whippy branches; his face stung from their recoil. He was aware of the gun in his belt. More noises from behind, the half-shouts, the straining of voices struggling with bodily effort. They were climbing after him.

He was perhaps four or five miles from the border. He paused, his breath smoking around him, mouth open like that of an exhausted dog, and looked up. The mountain seemed to go on forever, white with the grey creases of bare ledges and steep cliff-faces. He could not make out the peak or the fold near the peak where they had crossed from the valley to come down to the fort. The snow seemed invested with something of the approaching dawn's greyness. The noise of rotors seemed louder.

The first bullet ripped through close-packed, low branches near his head. He scrabbled away on all fours, then leaned again into his blundering run. The snow was deep and loose and he floundered on, his feet and legs numb, his chest heaving, pressed by a tightening steel band. Two more shots, both wide. Fear made him aware of every inch of flesh on his back and buttocks, even though he did not know whether they wanted him alive.

He turned to his right, running like a fairground target along a humped ridge which climbed towards a shoulder of the mountain. Underneath the snow, Mohammed Jan had assured him, were tracks, Pathan routes. Hyde knew he was following the route they had taken when they had crossed into Afghanistan, but there was no track. He could not believe in a track, did not consciously choose his path. Some detailed, trained memory guided him, prompted his changes of course, his upward movement. More shots, again wide. He heard the bullets whine in the air, skip off the bare cliff-face twenty yards from him. He raised his body slightly, arms akimbo for balance. It was as if he were running across a tightrope of snow. On either side of the ridge, the mountain fell away — forty feet or more to his left, thousands of feet to his right. He wobbled forward, terrified of slowing, of losing his balance.

He was climbing again, the ridge broadening like a flying-buttress at its point of closure with the cathedral. He spurred his numb, leaden legs to more effort. One, two, three, four, climbing more steeply now, he remembered this section, the ridge and beyond it the narrow path across the cliff-face, then a winding, slow climb up to the fold in the mountain which concealed the entrance to the long, narrow valley where Petrunin had burned the Pathans to death.

Ten, eleven, twelve…

His left leg blundered deeply into the snow, up to his groin. His right leg bent, balanced him, and he thrust with it, toppling himself to his left, over the edge of the ridge, the snow pouring like a waterfall with him as he fell, his head spinning — stars, snow, greyness, snow, snow in his eyes and nostrils, in every opening and crack in his clothing. He tried to reach for the gun, then like a vessel out of control he struck against a rock submerged in snow and lay winded, consciousness coming and going, his body incapable of further effort.

He paused in the secret darkness on the narrow staircase, and wondered whether the ghost of the old maiden aunt had observed his arrival. Not even a maiden aunt, he reminded himself. At the top of the staircase was a flat that had belonged to a reclusive, aged spinster without living family. She had died entirely alone. Her death had been unmourned, even unrecorded. Her property had never been sold. The cat and the canaries, of course, had been disposed of. The flat provided an ideal meeting-place; a safe house. On the ground floor were the offices of a small and unsuccessful importer of plastic novelties from the Far East for inclusion in Christmas crackers. A KGB cover.

Already, he could smell the mustiness of the little used flat reaching down the stairs towards him. Mothballs, the long-ago urinations of successive cat companions, the smell of unchanged and uncleaned bird-cages, the smell of mothballs in old tweed skirts and out-of-date dresses and rubbed-bare, patchy fur coats. Yet he waited on the stairs. Upstairs, his contact would be waiting. It was not that he was reluctant to begin the meeting — far from it. Pausing for a moment between the noise of traffic from the street outside and the pervading old-maid scents from above, Babbington was confident. Of course, treachery was like an old, wounded elephant. Threatened, it had to blunder to its own defence, unable to move quickly or decisively. The cut-outs, the drops, the contacts, the letter-boxes, all the subtle means of contact, prevented speed and decisiveness. Security — the security designed to protect him — was a wound when speed was required. Yet it needed only locomotion; a few moments for the elephant to gather its strength in order to make its enemies instead of itself seem puny and wounded. There had been shock-delay, of course.

And the fact that Petrunin's scheme had been too clever. He had warned them about that. Dazzlingly clever. Aubrey, solitary as he was, had never lacked friends, willing hands. Which had brought the Massingers into the game, and Hyde and Shelley, and now Zimmermann.

And yet, it had taken the work of only a few hours — would he admit to the sweaty, uncertain, tense nature of those hours, now he was safe again? Perhaps yes, just a little unnerving, but only a few hours to right the balance, to restore the fortunes of the board. The Massingers were in Bonn with Zimmermann — the woman, Clara Elsenreith, was in Vienna. If he read Massinger's stupid, caring American character aright, he and his wife would go to the woman. Vienna Station, in all important respects, was his. They would be walking into a neat and certain trap; the conclusion of their enquiries. Full stop. Period, as Massinger might put it.

Babbington smiled to himself in the darkness. The wallpaper was old, pregnant in a dozen places with damp and time. Zimmermann would hold back so long as one frightened him sufficiently. And Aubrey — yes, Aubrey, too, might make for Vienna, for that woman with whom he had once been involved…?

Babbington shook his head. That was, perhaps, too optimistic a view. Whatever, Aubrey would be found soon — And silenced.

It would be well, all manner of things would be well, just as long as he acted quickly. And he had done so.

He looked up towards the head of the stairs, the landing, and the door into the musty passageway of the flat. Oleg would be there, the irritating portable cassette-player in his lap, narrow headphones at his ears, passing the time with Mahler and modern jazz while he awaited his arrival; a man sitting in self-contained silence in a barely furnished room in need of decoration. Babbington shook off the clinging lack of importance and status about the room and Oleg.

The KGB were standing back on this, of course, and for two good reasons. Firstly, they had no wish to compromise or even expose him by violent response. And secondly, they regarded it as a test for him. Could he cope with this emergency? Now their man possessed the power, could he use it to protect himself.

Babbington again smiled to himself, moving one or two steps nearer the head of the staircase. Moscow Centre was nothing if not pragmatic. Even he could be risked in order to test his quality. Well, he'd done it. This little crisis, just a hiccough, would last no more than another twenty-four hours — especially if they killed Petrunin and Hyde in Afghanistan, as should have been done with Petrunin in the first place.

He'd liked Tamas Petrunin when he had been London Rezident. He was the sort of KGB staff officer one could admire, admit as an equal in mind and taste and dedication. Unlike the peasant Kapustin. Nevertheless, sentiment would not have interfered. The moment Teardrop was activated, that should have been the end of it. No dropped clues, no loose threads. Petrunin would have disappeared.

Babbington reached the head of the staircase and looked back. There were muted noises from the traffic outside, and a ratlike scrabbling from some ground floor storeroom behind the importer's offices. Otherwise, silence. All would be well… There was no real emergency, only individuals; stings, not a swarm. Pieces of little value to be removed from the board; a small matter with the power he now possessed.

Moscow Centre would assume him satisfied now. He had reached the pinnacle. What they had never understood was his motive. He had joined them in the wake of Suez. 1956. They assumed, as they always did when ideology and money were not involved — as they were not in his case — that power was the answer. The secret, convoluted, game-playing power that Philby and Blunt and the others had enjoyed, whatever their ideological protestations. Their gratification was not his. His was subtler, more refined.

The warmth of self-congratulation spread through his strong frame. He would indulge it, keep Oleg waiting a moment longer.

It was to avoid being powerful simply and only in a third-rate way. To avoid being no more than a secret, powerful cog in the machinery of a third-rate world power. He despised the pinnacle of secret power on a mountain-top where those who ruled felt the appropriate and glorious last move in the Great Game was the reinvasion of the Falkland Islands. The brouhaha of that incident had nauseated him — even made him shiver with self-regarding embarrassment now, as he stood at the head of the stairs — and left him more than ever confirmed in his chosen secret path.

He might never have been a traitor, as they termed it, had he been born a century earlier. England would then have been able to offer him everything he wanted. He would have been vital, crucial, to a first-rate power, to the world power…

In the 'fifties, he could not turn to America — had they been the enemy in whose ranks he could have secretly enlisted, he would have done so — and thus he had turned East, to Moscow. To the Soviet Union, to the KGB, he was as important as Kapustin, as important as the Chairman, almost as important as First Secretary Nikitin. For that secret pinnacle, for that value to be placed upon him, he had waited for almost thirty years. For that he had worked, for that he had made his original choice, treachery rather than loyalty. He was one of the most important figures in the hierarchy of a superpower. England, now bankrupt and laughable as she was, proved every day to his immense satisfaction that he had chosen wisely.

He crossed the narrow, linoleumed landing almost blithely, and opened the door. The musty passageway was unlit, but there was a dim light from the lounge beyond. Yes, Oleg would be sitting there with his silly little headphones on, his foot perhaps tapping in rhythm to some unheard jazz.

Babbington smiled. Twenty-four hours, no more than that. That is what Oleg would want to hear, and that is what Babbington felt himself able to guarantee.

"Babbington played a very uncharacteristically minor role in the ensuing investigations… His absences, his pattern of behaviour — they could be regarded as suspicious with ease, my dear fellow."

Zimmermann watched Massinger carefully slicing at his portion of apfelstrudel with a small pastry fork. The American deliberately would not look up, nor would his wife. It was infuriating. Even their mutual choice of the homely German dessert seemed like a species of insult.

The dining-room of the Königshof was almost deserted. They were some of the last guests enjoying — no, not that word, Zimmermann instructed himself… enduring a late supper. Behind them, the river glittered with, lights reflected from both banks of the Rhine. Navigation lights moved on the river apparently without solid forms beneath them. Rain pattered against the huge windows.

When Massinger did not reply, Zimmermann pursued: "I have made a great many telephone calls this evening, since I left you…" He had rushed, in an unseemly way, from the hothouse of that hotel room, escaping the tense, violent, heady emotions sparking between the American and his wife. He had plunged into the pursuit of his intuitions regarding Babbington as into a cold, refreshing swimming pool. Babbington had indulged a brief affair with a married woman during his residence in Bonn in '74; it was the perfect cover, if it was a cover. "There is a woman in prison in Cologne…"

Massinger looked up. His eyes were abstracted, hardly focused. "What?" was all he said.

Margaret Massinger continued to devote her attention to her dessert, picking at it without appetite. Zimmermann realised that the woman was determined. For her, there were no more decisions to be taken. They had all been made. Zimmermann cursed himself once more for giving them the address of Clara Elsenreith as a peace-token between them when he returned to the Königshof to join them for supper. The instant, greedy lights in their eyes had predicted the manner of this conversation and its outcome. He was no more than a boring pedagogue on the last day of term, insisting on unremitting study while the sun shone outside and the holidays stretched ahead.

"Prison. She was arrested two years ago, on charges arising from… for war crimes. She still has not been brought to trial. I intend to see her. She was the secretary assigned to Babbington during his residence here… he used her flat for — his assignations, you see." Zimmermann spoke without pause or interruption, as if speed and emphasis would attract their deeper attention.

Massinger stared with little interest across the table. Margaret, Zimmermann could tell, was alert but stubbornly refusing to accept the importance of the subject he had broached.

"What — what do you expect to learn?"

"The truth of Babbington's story — what else?" Zimmermann snapped. He dabbed his lips with his napkin, his own dessert of cheesecake finished.

"You think Babbington's the man?"

"I don't think, I merely suspect."

"But that's nonsense—!" Massinger burst out, as if all that had been said to him had only just impinged on his reason. "That's too fantastic to be true."

Margaret looked up, shaking her head. "The idea of Andrew being a traitor is ridiculous," she said calmly, with utter, dismissive certainty. "Impossible," she added as she saw his expression change to one of anger.

Zimmermann remembered the murmured promises, over and over repeated, that the American had made to this woman. It had been like overhearing the whispers of approaching climax, having strayed into a darkened bedroom where copulation was taking place. Promises, adorings, devotion, deep passion. It had made him flee the room. Now, he realised it blinded and determined them. Tomorrow, they would travel to Vienna to see Clara Elsenreith.

Zimmermann had sent no one, had not spoken to the woman himself. It was cowardice, he acknowledged. He did not wish to know.

But they did. More than anything; more than safety, more than friendship, more than the future, they had to know. Who killed Castleford, and why.

Zimmermann understood the woman. She was behind it. Her whole being rejected the idea that her father could have been, might have been, was ever a Nazi. To disprove that monstrous fiction, she had to know from Clara that, if he was killed by Aubrey, it was a crime of passion. That she would accept, her father's death as an adulterer. But never a Nazi, at one with the beasts of the past.

It was hopeless. He would never convince them.

"Will you promise me to come back — once you have spoken with Frau Elsenreith — and help me?" he pleaded.

Even now they hesitated, as if they could not see that far ahead; cautious investors in an uncertain future, machines programmed for one simple, immediate task. It was as if they mutually assumed everything would be over, ended, once they knew the truth of Berlin in 1946. He sighed inwardly. Anger and frustration were as palpable.as indigestion. Why could they not see — ?

"We'll — yes, but we can't promise until we — we've been to Vienna," Massinger replied lamely after a long, embarrassing silence. Margaret touched his hand, as if to strengthen a flagging resolve.

God, Zimmermann thought — God in Heaven!

"I see," he said coldly, rebuffing them. He laid his napkin on the table. He wished to be cruel, so added: "Remember you are known in Vienna. Be careful. Employ your old professional instincts, my friend." He stood up, nodded a stiff little bow towards Margaret, who remained silent, then announced: "I shall go to Cologne at once. I am concerned to hear this woman's story. Good night — and good luck."

Massinger made as if to rise. Zimmermann waved him back onto his chair, and left with a firm military step.

The snow in his mouth and nostrils was choking him. It hadn't melted and run icily into his throat. His eyes were caked with snow and he was blind. He brushed at them, opened them, coughing out the snow and sneezing. He sat up quickly to clear his nose by violent blowing. He was white from head to foot, encrusted with snow.

The soldier was standing over him, Kalashnikov pointed towards the middle of Hyde's form. The Australian looked up, searching the pale young face for nerves, for apprehension and doubt and the need for prompt support. He found everything he sought, and rolled over slowly, clutching his right arm with his left, groaning.

"Stay still," the young soldier warned. Hyde continued to roll slowly until his right arm was masked by his body. Melted snow trickled down his back like a trail of fear. His chest and stomach were icy with the melted snow he had swallowed. He reached carefully behind him and drew the Makarov automatic that had once, long ago, belonged to the young lieutenant he had killed. He sat up, gun masked by his thigh, then shot the Russian soldier twice, once in the stomach, bringing his head forward, then a second time through the forehead, just above the left eye. The Russian's body sprang away from him, as if in surprise at some electric shock, and lay unmoving in the snow.

He had killed the man without calculation as an immediate response to the threat of capture. He looked up the furrow of disturbed snow that indicated his fall. The flying-buttress of the ridge stretched up and away from him and was empty of other troops. They'd split up, then — probably on orders from the nearest helicopter; the one he could hear clattering up the side of the mountain, still well below his own altitude. The sky was now uniformly grey.

He scrambled to his feet and fought his way up the slope, slipping and staggering in the deep drifted snow, eventually reaching the ridge once more. Still no one. He skirted the hidden crevasse and climbed the buttress to the point where it joined the face of the mountain. Slowly, with caution that memory advised, he edged his way along the narrow, snow-hidden ledge that climbed around the mountainside, no wider than a goat-track, its precise dimensions fattened and masked by the snow. He rubbed his back against the rock for the sense of security its contact gave him as he moved.

Gradually, he moved out of sight of the place where he had fallen, where the dead Russian lay. He was perhaps a couple of hundred feet above the overhang where Petrunin lay. He was exposed above the tree line. After twenty minutes, he could see the most distant and higher peaks, beyond Parachinar and in Pakistan, tinted with gold.The sky had lost its leaden greyness. The cloud was wispy and thin and the snow had stopped. The ledge broadened ahead of him into a path where two men could have walked abreast, climbing steeply to the sharp crease in the mountain that gave access to the long, narrow valley at the other end of which lay Pakistan.

He began moving more quickly now, wishing he had stolen the dead Russian's R/T and so enabling himself to keep in contact with his pursuers, monitoring their progress, their distance from him. He was bent and worn, leaning forward as he jogged desultorily, his head beginning to fill with the noises of his own heartbeat and breathing, emptying of everything else — Petrunin, the computer retrieval that was no more than a pipe-dream unless you were Petrunin himself or a KGB Deputy Chairman; Miandad, Mohammed Jan, the Pathans, the dead young Russian below the ridge — whose Kalashnikov he had forgotten, like his R/T — his last footsteps, the noise of helicopters…

All faded. To each step there were numerous heartbeats. One ragged breath each time a foot was lifted and moved — the snow was thinner here, because the wind sliced it off the path like a knife, cutting through him too, freezing him — and almost ten hurried beats of his heart before each step was complete and the next one begun. He laboured upwards with increasing slowness, staggering from time to time, those times when he failed to lower his foot quickly enough to keep his balance. His breath came more and more quickly because the air seemed so thin and cold. He couldn't get enough of it into his lungs with a single deep breath, and yet did not want to breathe deeply because of the searing pain caused by its coldness. His stubble was frosty where his breath had frozen on his skin and hair. He did not look at his watch — he did not become or remain aware of his wrist which wore his watch at the end of his left arm unless he needed that arm to drive on, to adjust his balance, to plunge into the thin snow and lever his body forward…

All noises outside himself faded. The path had rounded the mountain as he climbed. His hands were deathly white in the first sunlight, the snow began to glitter, hurting his eyes. He was almost there. The path had narrowed — by an effort he remembered noting the fact on the way in — but he could still move freely along it, the wall of the mountain to his left, touched often by his hand, scraped by his knuckles for reassurance or gripped by tense, clawlike fingers for support when he became dizzy or unbalanced.

He passed through the crease, the narrow gate to the valley, without realising. He began to descend into shadow again, away from the first rays of the sun. He paused, then, on his hands and knees, and looked ahead of him, out of Afghanistan.

And realised that he had no image of rescue in his imagination. He had not thought, not considered… He had lost Miandad, his courier, his secretary. Hyde did not know the arrangements.

The slope of the mountains dropped quickly, like the deep sharp cut of a great knife, to the snow-covered floor of the narrow valley perhaps two hundred feet below him. This ran like a twisting snake through high mountains for perhaps three or four miles, until the land lifted again to the pass over which he might reach Parachinar and the Pathan camp.

He knew he could not return, alone, to that camp — dare not.

Something seemed to give out and slump inside him, something more radical and vital than mere physical energy. He shivered with weakness, on all fours, an exhausted animal. Then he fell against the cliff-face, hunching into it as if into a parent's skirts, a lover's comfort. His breathing sounded like sobbing, even to himself…

Until drowned by the noise of helicopter rotors approaching rapidly from behind him, clattering against the rock face, making his body shudder with the downdraught as it lifted into view and hung there, its tinted glass windscreen like a threatening mask, its gunports like a grin. It dipped sideways. He could see faces at the side doors, which were open. He could see a heavy PKMS machine-gun on a swivel mounting in the doorway, aimed at him. He rose from all fours to his knees, pressing himself against the rock. The helicopter moved closer, perhaps thirty feet above him, where the accentuated slope of the mountain peak allowed the rotors closer access without danger. Spiderlike, huge, deafening, the MiL gunship hung over him, filling the morning sky, its racket reverberating like physical blows from the mountain. It sank very slowly towards him. Hyde could not move.

He became enveloped by the whirling snow dragged up and flung about by the downdraught. The helicopter lowered itself into the writhing cloud of snow it was creating. Hyde pressed his face against the rock, feeling the pressure of the downdraught in his arms and hands — fingers slipping all the time, unable to hold their grip, gtow into the rock enough — then in his body, which juddered with increasing velocity and violence as he crouched with his back to the rotors, then in his knees and calves and feet which shuddered, slid, began to move across the narrow ledge towards the edge and the drop beyond. He was being agitated into motion, like a compound in a chemist's jar, shaken into something else — a body falling from a high place.

He held on, trying to hug the rock. He attempted to sit, then to lie flat. His legs slid away from him like those of a baby, uncontrolled. They were dragged towards the edge of the track, towards the drop. He felt his body slip, too. He turned onto his back and dug in his heels, but could not prevent himself moving. The ground seemed alive and sandlike in its distress beneath him, the helicopter a huge black beetle hovering above him, the cloud of upflung, powdery snow obscuring everything else.

His legs scrabbled in space, then slumped, knees bent, over the edge. His buttocks moved towards the edge. He could not turn over again, his hands could not grip.

The MiL slid to one side. Blue sky where it had been, then a black something dropping from it on a rope. A smaller spider, or only the spider's thread. He lay on his back, legs over the edge, snow boiling around him, covering him, as the helicopter's winch-man came to collect him. Twenty feet, fifteen, ten — he seemed to swoop in towards Hyde, who could only wait for him. He came level, hanging over the drop, then the MiL began to shunt him sideways towards the ledge.

A hundred yards, two hundred, he told himself. Something, at least, told him. No more than that before you reach cover. Then three miles, something else announced. At least three miles.

Two hundred yards, the other something replied.

Six feet, five, four his eyes registered. The winch-man's boots scrabbled on the edge, found purchase, his body leaning slightly away, then straightening. He was on the ledge. Hyde kicked out and the winch-man danced away as the MiL shifted slightly, a puppet on the wire that had lowered him. He came swinging slowly back like a pendulum, feet scrabbling again, then gaining purchase, the rifle already coming around from its position slung across his back. Hyde rolled towards the winch-man, and the MiL danced him away again. Hyde scrabbled in the snow, found frozen dirt, dug his fingernails into it, stopped the roll of his body towards the edge. He was exhausted and terrified; incapable of much more. The winch-man danced back, feet touching lightly on the ledge again. This time, he was grinning, and the gun was pointing.

Did they want him—?

For a while — two hundred yards — before they kill you…

He made as if to roll again, and the man's feet began to dance upwards — Christ, the pilot was good and they'd done this trick before — and then he hovered as if performing a strange, frozen entrechat in combat boots. The boots remained a foot or so above the path. The powdery snow settled around the legs of the man as he waited. Hyde rolled, the legs danced upwards, Hyde drew the Makarov from behind his back and fired. The winch-man's smile became lopsided, and emitted blood — like Petrunin, and Hyde didn't look any more. The MiL whipped away from the ledge, and Hyde turned and was running. The helicopter buzzed behind him, closing. He heard a terrible, screaming noise, then the scrape of metal and flesh and bone along the wall of the mountain. They hadn't even winched the man in, just left him there, just alive, — banging him along the cliff, trapped — ending the dance.

The PKMS opened up, scattering bullets along the track behind him, shattering the outline of a rock that had been close to his head the previous moment. Hyde dropped into the twisted, jagged, concealing trench of rocks that led to the valley floor, fear making his body flow almost as easily and swiftly as the stream that must once have reached the valley by this sharp-cut course. Hyde, his body jarred and bruised and shaken, continued swiftly downwards.

He looked behind him, just once. The MiL was a hundred feet up, and the dead winch-man was being hauled up. His body hung grotesquely, brokenly, beneath the gunship. Hyde slithered downwards, desperate to reach the valley floor before the MiL resumed the game.

"There could be — depositions made available, Frau Schröder. I'm sure your lawyer understands me…?" Zimmermann made the statement lightly turning his- head so he could see the reactions of the woman's legal counsel. A youngish man, running to fat, gold-rimmed glasses giving him a learned air that was at odds with the expensive, modishly-cut suit and the flamboyant shirt. He would have been little more than a baby when the Schroder woman was committing the atrocities of which she was accused.

The lawyer nodded for him to continue with the bribery. Margarethe Schröder watched Zimmermann from beneath heavy eyelids. Her anger and outrage were evident, making her face appear too young for its surmounting thatch of white hair. She shrugged, as if Zimmermann bored her, but there was a gleam of calculation and alert cunning in her eyes. She had spent the last two years in prison, in her home city so that relatives might conveniently visit her, awaiting a trial that might never come. She had been a guard at Maidanek camp. The depositions that had been presented against her recited her deeds. She had killed babies, children, women as a matter of course, of routine — something more chilling to Zimmermann when he had first read the depositions than the gratuitous, hideous way her activities had reached above and beyond the call of duty; the dashing out of brains on concrete floors or against the wooden walls of huts, the rumours of the lampshades of skin, the collection of lingering enlargements that decorated her quarters.

Zimmermann had met them before — the survivors of the SS and the Gestapo. There was still no other emotion he could feel than sick, quiet horror, at history and at their nationality.

The woman had been on holiday with a party of similarly retired women in Florida when a survivor of Maidanek had seen and recognised her. Margarethe Schröder had never denied the charges; merely dismissed them as unimportant. She did not acknowledge their criminality. Zimmermann, however, believed she wished to end her imprisonment. She resented the sense of blame, of accusation that surrounded her — resented it deeply and bitterly. He could offer her a speedy and innocuous trial, even if he hoped he did not mean it, preferred to think that he would renege on any deal. However, all that was for later.

"I would undertake," he continued, breaking the silence that had held only the slight noise of the humming striplight, "to ensure that the trial was brought forward — dealt with this year…" Schröder's eyes watched him, burning and suspicious and afraid. Zimmermann tried to smile reassuringly: "We could ensure a very light sentence, thanks to some new depositions that contradict those held by the Federal Prosecutor's office — a sentence which, in view of your incarceration for the past two years, Frau Schroder, would ensure your release before next Christmas."

He waited then. Schröder looked at her lawyer, who appeared to carefully consider the offer that had been made. He removed his spectacles, becoming at once little more than a boy in appearance, wiped them with a silk handkerchief, then replaced them and his learned air with a flourish.

"There will be no notes," he observed. "At the moment, this is not to be considered a statement of any kind."

"Of course not."

"You will not ask Frau Schröder any questions concerning the period 1941-45. Do you agree to this?"

"Naturally. That part of Frau Schröder's life does not interest me — it is not important to me," he corrected himself, unwilling to antagonise the woman. Again, he essayed a smile in her direction. She was looking at her lawyer, who nodded to her. She turned to Zimmermann. Her voice was deep and hoarse. Her hands, spread on the bare, formica-covered table, were large, the nails unmanicured. Zimmermann might almost have called them a man's hands had he not realised the easy platitude for what it was, and recognised the way in which he was making her fit a stereotype. In reality, there was nothing with which to compare Schroder and all the others.

"What do you want to ask me?" she said grudgingly.

"Thank you, Frau Schröder." Zimmermann sat down on the opposite side of the table. Schröder lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the humming striplight. The interview room was warm, drily stale and unused like the aseptic corridors he had followed to reach it. The prison was modern, clean and spacious, like a huge office building, suggesting that crime and criminals were not to be found there. Like most of those built in Germany since the war, the prison always appeared to Zimmermann like a grim pastiche of a Costa Brava hotel.

"I wish to take you back to 1974, when you worked…" She nodded dismissively. She knew why he had come. "… for an officer in British Intelligence during his residence in Bonn. You were the secretary of a man named Andrew Babbington?"

"Yes."

"I want to ask you some questions about him."

"I was always a good secretary — very efficient. There were no accus—" She coloured slightly, but mostly in anger at herself. "No reports of inefficiency, I am certain."

"Of course, Frau Schröder. Of course not. I know that Mr Babbington was very pleased. It is not you I wish to discuss, but him. You understand that I cannot tell you why at this moment?"

She weighed his statement while Zimmermann looked at the lawyer, who eventually nodded his complicity. There was no need for Zimmermann to warn either of them of the security aspects of his enquiries. He returned his attention to Margarethe Schröder. She was grinding out the first cigarette, lighting a second almost at once. She nodded. Evidently, she had accepted that it was not some subtle trick, an indirect and overland route to Maidanek and her crimes, even if she could not understand the importance attached to an Englishman in 1974.

"I believe that Mr Babbington had an affair — with a married woman who has since died of cancer — while he was in Bonn?" He studied Schröder. "You knew of this affair, of course?" His tone was carefully calculated. It implied a vague bond between them, a similarity of attitude to the business of their discussion, but it was clipped and authoritative, suggesting that Zimmermann was some kind of senior officer in the same organisation in which Schröder served. She nodded abruptly in reply. "Good. Now — how often did they meet? Where did they meet?" There was guilt, at once, a sense of complicity that might now endanger her. The cigarette wobbled between her lips. She coughed. "Come now, Schröder — you have done nothing wrong. Where did they meet?"

"In — my flat," she admitted in a small voice. "Usually in my flat." The repetition was more defiant. She had lifted her head.

"Why — for security?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Of course," she answered scornfully. "The woman was the wife of a civil servant, someone he worked with here in Bonn." Zimmermann was nodding, staring at the table-top and its faint geology of coffee stains and pencil scribbles, doodles and cigarette burns. "They had to be careful. I was asked — I helped." The implication was that she had been paid, too. Babbington had evidently won her over by charm and bribery. She flicked a lock of frizzy white hair from her forehead. "They met there two, maybe three times a week."

"Can you remember exactly when this was?"

"1974, of course." And then her anger burst out. "When Guillaume, the traitor, was arrested. Now he is back in the East, after what he did to betray Germany, and I am here—!" Zimmermann reached towards her, but she snatched her manlike hands from the table. "Why do they still care about all that?" she wailed. There was iron in the self-pity, however. "It was forty years ago — everyone has forgotten — people don't know and don't want to know! Why am I here?" she screamed.

Zimmermann stood up, leaning his knuckles on the table. "It is to help you get out of here that you must answer my questions, Frau Schröder. A little more help, if you please. I am a very busy man, and I have no time to waste with these — demonstrations of self-pity."

She turned from her lawyer to him, sniffed and wiped her eyes. The tone had stung and impressed her. Bribed her, too. She nodded her head, vigorously.

"What can I tell you? Two or three times a week, there was never mess, the sheets were always changed on the bed, there were champagne glasses washed up, any food… all was washed up, put away when they had finished. I was never inconvenienced. The flat was always empty when I returned."

"Did you know this woman?"

"Yes. By name — I had seen her once or twice."

"But never at the flat?"

"No. They were — discreet."

Zimmermann pondered. At last he had been able to dehumanise the situation, purge it of its associations. Margarethe Schröder was now no more than a possible witness to events in 1974 — a retired secretary with a high security clearance. The recipient of a civil service pension.

"Can you be specific, as to dates? When did this affair begin — when did they begin using your flat for their meetings?"

"I went to work for Mr Babbington — oh, in March, or perhaps the beginning of April. I am not certain. At first, I did not wish to be seconded, but he was very charming, very considerate…"

"Of course. And the flat?"

"Perhaps two weeks later — at first, it was to be only for one time, then he pressed me, with such apologies… and so…" She raised her hands, almost smiling. "Then two or three times a week." She chuckled throatily.

"I see. They could not use hotels?"

"The woman was, as you know, well known in Bonn. She might have been recognised by women in her circle?" To Schröder, 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 Schröder?" 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 Schröder 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, Schröder. 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 — Schröder — 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 Schröder'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 Teardrop had been bound to raise the ghosts of '74, and now he was forced to exorcise them a decade later.

"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 it with his tumbler, sipping at the whisky.

"It would be too easy, too simple, to use your enormous powers," Oleg said. "Like swatting flies. The problem is, the squashed flies remain on the window-pane or the white wall, marking it."

"I don't need a lecture in caution. This is your test for me — I shall pass it." He saluted his companion with the tumbler, and drank again as the tic recommenced.

He would swat them — if they knew, any or all of them, rather than just guessed or suspected or were blundering around, blindfold at the party and trying desperately to touch someone they could not see. If they knew, then he would swat them. If they knew, or acted upon knowledge, at any time, then he would have them eliminated — Massinger, Margaret, Aubrey, Zimmermann, Shelley, Hyde. The whole little gang. Every one of them. He would have to be careful, of course. If they behaved, they had to be allowed to live because their deaths would be a messy and unnecessary complication…

But if they knew, and they acted—?

Dead.

"Another dead one," he said, picking up the bottle of whisky and finding it empty.

Zimmermann inserted his key in the lock, and the door swung open at once, before he had turned the key. Immediately, he knew he had been burgled. There was no one in the corridor, he had passed no one on the stairs, no one had been using the lift…

He listened. Nothing. Silence. The smell of liquor, of broken bottles. He stepped into the hall and felt for the switch. When the light came on, he could see the door of the lounge ajar. Furniture was overturned — a small piece of Meissen broken near the door, a headless shepherdess — and the smell of the broken whisky and gin bottles increased. Still he heard nothing.

He hurried now. The lounge was a shambles, and the wide-open door of the bedroom as he passed it revealed the tumbled bed and the drawers hanging open like shocked mouths. His clothes were strewn about the room.

He saw immediately that the silver pieces were gone, and the porcelain. The paintings had been cut from their frames, the photographs — there was one from his own past, in the uniform in which Aubrey had captured him in 1940, grinning from beneath his peaked cap — had been smashed or ground underfoot. The drinks cabinet had been emptied — yes, a bottle of whisky and one of gin neckless, the liquor soaking into the carpet.

He saw that the small wall-safe hung open, the picture frame askew that had concealed it. The files were gone, each and every one of them, together with his savings books, his chequebook, his other credit cards, his will and the rest of his papers. And the two thousand marks in notes he always kept there.

But it was the files, of course. The damned files…

He was galvanised rather than numbed by shock. He looked out of the window but the Audi that had followed him was not to be seen in the street. He crossed to the telephone, rescuing it from its entanglement with a rug, finding the receiver itself hanging over the back of the sofa. He dialled the Konigshof Hotel. He had no wish for a restorative drink — the spilled whisky was oppressive and heady. He was angry at the damage — the professional entry clumsily disguised by modern vandalism. Very angry.

He requested Massinger's room number.

"Come on, come on…"he murmured, then: "Ah, Paul, my friend. I apologise for waking you at this hour."

"Wolfgang? What is it?"

"I appear to have been burgled. The files have been taken. I'm sure they were the object of the burglary. I am calling you to advise extreme caution tomorrow and for all the days that follow."

"Burglarised — God…"

"Please be careful — I will not caution you not to go, because you would not listen. But, watch your back, my friend. You may need old instincts, old training. And hurry back. I — we need each other's help, of that I am certain."

"Yes, yes I will. A couple of days, no more—"

"Good night, then."

He flung the telephone onto the sofa, as if to allow it to remain an integral part of the ransacked room. He rubbed his forehead, his other hand on his hip as he paced the stained and littered carpet. He appeared professorial, and on the point of beginning some abstruse line of argument. His thoughts, however, were clear and simple.

KGB. Moving to protect, moving to remove proof. Carrying away on large farm forks the dungheap concealing the diamond. Protecting…

It had to be. Babbington. At once, they had moved to a position of aggressive defence on his behalf.

It meant caution. Extreme, almost somnolent caution, if he were to proceed. Especially, it meant doing nothing to arouse their suspicions until he had Massinger back with him from Vienna.

It also meant, he thought suddenly, scrabbling for the telephone, it also meant that Frau Margarethe Schröder might, just might, be in some immediate danger. Picking up the telephone, he began dialling the prison in Cologne, his eyes roaming over the littered, broken remains of his furniture and ornaments with a weary gleam of wisdom and cunning.

He was running into the low, newly risen sun, wintrily-red, his shape black against it for those pursuing, his shadow thrown long behind him. His shadow was palpable to him, even though he could not see it. To his heightened, exhausted, almost hallucinatory senses, it dragged behind him like a lure for hounds. He was an easy black target against a red disc. He could hear the noise of the MiL gunship as it prepared to swoop once more, and he scanned the rocks for cover.

Finesse, you bastards, finesse, finesse…! he had silently screamed at the helicopter, over and over, as he had reached the narrow, twisting floor of the steep valley and began running as the dead winch-man was retrieved by the crew of the MiL. He wanted them to toy with him, play cat-and-mouse. That way, he might survive.

The snow had drifted in places in the narrow knife-cut of the valley. It restrained and trapped, caused him to stumble in his fear and haste and weariness, then it was a thin, powdery skin and he ran more easily from rock to rock, dodging, sprinting, bending low then running upright, head back like an athlete. It was perhaps no more than four miles long, and he would reach the border in less than a mile—

That was what he had announced to himself, between the few quick, deep, preparatory breaths he had taken at the foot of the tumbled, boulder-strewn slope, the Russian helicopter still above and behind him.

Less than a mile—

It was meaningless, of course. The border wasn't even drawn at that point, it did not exist. Pakistan lay at the other end of the valley, and Parachinar, which he had to avoid. And somewhere was the army and the people who would be waiting for Miandad, under instructions that the dead Pakistani officer had never divulged to him.

Less than a mile—

And he had begun running. Random, fast, hesitant, bent over, upright, apparently directionless. There were one or two shots which faded on the dry, cold morning air, their bullets well wide. It was not Kalashnikovs he had to avoid, but cannon fire, machine-gun volleys, grenades, anti-personnel mines… all the weaponry of a MiL-24 gunship determined to make a kill.

Half a mile, surely half a mile by now, he pleaded with his judgment as he heard the MiL move from the hover to the approach as if it were a bird of prey stooping. The noise clattered in the thin dry air, bouncing off the rocks. The modern Stuka, he heard some irrelevant part of his awareness remark in the tone of the bar-room bore, passing out his platitudes like helpings of crisps or peanuts.

The image grew, and he amputated it. He turned, and watched the MiL. It was flying cautiously — no, not cautiously, tauntingly was the right description. One change of acceleration, one dip, and it could cover him like a cloud or a coffin-lid in perhaps no more than six or seven seconds. But it wanted to play cat-and-mouse because its crew were so enraged and so confident. Make him sweat—

Terror, advancing up the narrow valley, dragging its wake of deafening, reverberated sound behind it. Terror. It minced slightly, from side to side, swaying as if grotesquely miming a woman's walk. It moved towards Hyde's shadow, which had seemed to prostrate itself at the helicopter's approach. Hyde felt his body quivering uncontrollably.

Terror.

He turned his back on it, and began running again, weaving as quickly and agilely as he could through the littered rocks and boulders. His legs were leaden; the noise seemed to drain them of strength. Then he heard the launch of one, two missiles from the pods beneath the MiL's stubby wings. He dived for the nearest rock, almost somersaulting over it, crouching behind it immediately. The flare from the rockets dazzled his eyes, he could feel the heat of the exhausts. The two rockets exploded twenty yards ahead of him, throwing up earth and rock and snow in front of the red sun, obscuring it. The valley appeared dark. Hyde stood up and ran into the churning cloud of debris, and through it into the glare of the sun. They'd been playing with him. He wasn't meant to die at once, not just yet.

The MiL slipped over the haze of settling earth and dust, following him, moving barely faster than he was himself. He jumped a low rock, almost twisted his ankle as he landed on a loose boulder, hopped until his balance was righted, and went on, dodging and weaving in his sprint, changing direction every few paces. Meaninglessly, he realised he must already have crossed the border. The MiL's long, fat shadow slid over him like night, and the machine was a little ahead of him. A grinning face swung the mounted machine-gun in his direction, a flutter of iron butterflies emerged, fell from the belly of the MiL, bouncing and skittering ahead of him like tacks spread to ambush an approaching cyclist. Anti-personnel bombs, the toylike things that had deprived children of arms and eyes and faces in a dozen corners of the world. Play with the nice iron toy, painted dark-green, and numbered. Bang—

Hyde jumped onto a rock as one of the stub-winged bombs rolled towards his feet. He tiptoed like an unpractised tightrope artiste along the rock, arms akimbo for balance, then jumped to another rock, jumped again, ran and skipped three paces, jumped to a larger rock—

One lay in the fold of the rock, his toe reached at it, he overbalanced, tumbling onto the snow-covered ground where the tips and wingtips of the iron butterflies thrust out of the thin snow carpet, growing like strange plants. He rolled, groaning, and stopped his momentum by digging in his heels. His head swung round and he was staring at the white numbers on the squat little body of one of the bombs.

Fused, or contact?

He could not tell whether they would detonate on contact or after the lapse of a precise number of seconds.

Then one exploded behind him, shattering a loaf-sized lump from its parent rock. He got to his knees, he stood and hopped. A deadly game of hopscotch, one foot, side, forward, side, side, up onto a rock — the MiL was still ahead of him, the machine-gunner grinning, waiting for him to catch up with the game — along the rock, one foot, space there, bomb there, quick, quick, bomb! — clear ground, hole-in-the-snow, avoid! — clear, clear, bomb, clear…

He was out of the little cabbage-patch they had sown for him, and the ground was clear. Small detonations, throwing up snow and brown earth, began almost at once. He ran, keeping close to the scatter of rocks and boulders, his breath and limbs labouring now that the going was instinctive. He must be no more than half a mile from the end of the valley. He was across the border; closer to death.

"Finesse, finesse, finesse," he kept repeating through the thick saliva in his mouth, through clenched teeth. "Finesse, finesse…"

The rocks were charred, even the snow looked black beneath its light, latest covering. Something had burned…?

Fifty Pathans — metal balls, the strange eggs that had burst open on impact — the silver, gleaming mist…

It was here. The MiL was above him. He could almost see the eggs dropping, bursting open, smell the napalm mist—

Egg, egg, three, four, six, ten — fifteen…

He could see them—.

Half-eggs, rolling, their contents spilled already. A string of eggs laid by the MiL. They were going to burn him —

He felt the mist cold on his face. It refracted and distorted the sunlight, enlarged the huge red disc ahead of him. It was cold, chilling, terrifying. It clung. It was higher than he was, he was in it—

A tunnel of silver mist, just like before, gleaming even in the daylight. It outlined his arm as the limb bobbed in front of his eyes like St Elmo's fire. It clung to his hands, to the skin of his hands, to his Pathan clothing, to every part of him. To his face and beard and eyelids—

He wanted to scream, to stop and do no more than scream, as the MiL banked sharply and returned towards him. What was it, was it—?

The match, the firefly glow he had seen drop from Petrunin's blood-red helicopter…

A tunnel, a box of mist that would become a box of fire, consuming him—

He rubbed his clothing, the mist moved about him, closed in again — the helicopter slowly settled above him, the machine-gunner grinning, signaling farewell in an exaggerated, final salute — he rubbed at the mist again where he felt it on his skin, waved his arms, shook and danced his body but the mist only stirred sluggishly then closed in, as heavy and unmoving as long curtains in a slight breeze. It surrounded him. He was trapped, already dead. The mist had formed a cell, with a roof, walls, floor. And it would consume everything within it—

Within it?

Spark?

He could see the spark, in the dark belly of the MiL — the means of ignition was about to be released.

Within it—

He ran. The mist moved, closed behind him, gleamed and shimmered, dulled the light. He ran. He ran. The mist gave but did not end. Its spread was controlled by its chemical composition. How wide, how deep, how long—? He did not look up. He ran.

Light, air, less coldness on his face and the backs of his hands. He ran.

Mist folding behind, rock ahead. He ran.

He was still covered with it —.

He dived for the shelter of the rock, hearing the roar of the mist as it became flame. He rolled in the snow, hiding his face and hands, folding them into the bulk of his body. He rolled. Smoke near him, searing pain in his hands, on his face. He plunged them into snow, burning on his legs, he rolled and rolled in the snow, driving his body into a drift against the rocks which half-buried him, filling his nostrils and mouth and eyes and driving out all sensory impressions of the burning mist. Gobbets of fire must have flown in the MiL's downdraught, some of them reaching him. He did not want to know about his burns.

He did not want to know anything. He was finished. The snow cooled him, froze him. He couldn't move — there was nothing left. The snow numbed his face and hands. He turned his mouth, spat out snow, breathed. It was enough. The air, even if it tasted of napalm, revived him.

But nothing more—

He would wait.

He kept his eyes closed. They were heavy with snow. He heard the helicopter, his body tensed. He waited.

The noise — he could feel the downdraught of the rotors — clattered off the side of the valley, enlarging and expanding into two, three sets of rotors. Perhaps others had come…? He did not care. He could no longer even be terrified. Soon, soon now…

He was numb and clean. The smell of the napalm was dying down, the heat dissipating. He opened his eyes slowly. Half-melted snow watered in them. The helicopter hovered above him blackly, haloed with sunlight. There was another helicopter thirty yards away. And he heard the retreating noise of rotors. Retreating…

Roundels, green and white. Hyde was disorientated, waiting to die. The crescent moon and one star of Islam at the tail of the helicopter.

Green and white, no red star on the belly.

Roundels…?

He could not explain what had happened, not even as the Pakistan Army Sikorsky S-61R gunship helicopter dropped gently and benignly towards the charred floor of the narrow valley, blowing snow over his body from its downdraught as it descended.

CHAPTER TWELVE: Truth from an Old Man

"This whole matter has gone far enough to have become something of a shambles," Sir William Guest, GCMG, Cabinet Office Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee and a former Head of the Diplomatic Service, appeared pleased with the opportunity to display his seniority. His leather swivel chair creaked under his considerable weight — Babbington noticed again that he had a fat man's enclosed eyes and expressionless facial flesh which suggested slowness of mind, even stupidity. At least, nothing more than a certain money-grubbing low cunning, Babbington added to his observation. It was, of course, a mask. Sir William was his master, and his mentor, and his intellectual capacities were considerable. SAID was his brain-child; its birth was the fruit of his persuasion of the PM and the Cabinet Committees concerned. "A shambles," Sir William repeated with heavy emphasis. Then: "You will remember, Andrew, that I opposed the idea of lifting the 'D' Notices, and especially the idea of a prosecution for treason in Aubrey's case." It was not a hand-washing exercise, rather a reprimand.

"Yes," Babbington replied, waiting. It had suited his game, and that of Moscow Centre, that Sir William and others had seen him as the coming man, had assiduously encouraged his promotion and effected his seniority in MI5. It was an express-train, as Kapustin had once vulgarly put it, to the top of the mountain. The peasant Deputy Chairman of the KGB had laughed familiarly at that. The man always managed to remind Babbington that he thought of him as Moscow's man, Moscow's property, Moscow's creature—

Babbington suppressed his hatred. Sir William's thick right eyebrow had moved, as if he had already seen some expression on Babbington's face.

Sir William's office was a comfortable though drably coloured part of the warren of Cabinet Office rooms in Downing Street. As Sir William had said on one occasion: 'You may call it the factory floor — I prefer to call it the hotel annexe.' As he said it, his eyes had seemed to see through all the doors, along all the twisting, narrow corridors, towards the main house and the Cabinet Room and the PM's private office. His thoughts had then evidently returned to his own room with satisfaction, as if his description of the Cabinet Office's whereabouts was mere self-deprecation.

His chair creaked again as he shifted his bulk. "I'm glad you agree, Andrew. This isn't in the nature of a reprimand." There was cigar-ash on the lapel of his dark suit, and on the old Etonian tie. "However, be that as it may, we are now, to some considerable degree — compromised."

"I don't follow your logic."

"The newspapers have the scent, and we have to leave them baying at the moon. You let Kenneth Aubrey—" There was a hint of amusement in the grey eyes that were encircled by folds of fat. " — get away, not to put too fine a point upon it. You don't know where he is, and we have a charge of treason for him to answer. And my god-daughter, Heaven help her, has gone chasing off to Germany to discover the truth about her father!" He raised his hands in the air in mock horror. They descended with a drumlike beat on his desk. He was not smiling as he continued: "I don't foresee great happiness for her there, whatever the truth of the matter…" He seemed to be remembering distant events, even old pain, then he shook his head. "A strange man," he murmured. "Brilliant, but strange." Then his enshrouded eyes blinked into attentiveness once more. "The Prime Minister has changed her mind on this matter." His voice and facial expression implied a sense of frustration, eternally that of the civil servant at the whim of the politician. "There is to be no more fuss. Aubrey is to be found and persuaded to remain abroad. Unless he has plans to appear in Moscow in the near future."

"He has nowhere else to go," Babbington observed tartly.

"Whatever he has done, I cannot see Kenneth Aubrey enjoying a state pension and a Party flat in Moscow. Whatever… we do not want him back here. Understood?" Babbington nodded, tight-lipped. "Good. It is the future we must now look to — and that will be your business, at least in part. A cleansing of the stables. That and a full enquiry. That should satisfy the House, and the Press. The PM's first puritanical flush of enthusiasm — nay, her sheer exasperation after Blunt and the others that there was more bad weather coming from the direction of the intelligence service — has died down. She has listened to wiser heads, to counsels of calm—" Sir William seemed to glare at that moment. Babbington, of course, had been one of the headhunters… the PM had listened with enthusiasm, had agreed. Now Sir William had changed his mind and his advice was being heeded.

"I see."

"Excellent. You can bring Margaret back as soon as you wish — you have my blessing on it. That foolish man, her husband… but, when have we ever expected maturity from our Transatlantic cousins, mm?" Babbington was invited to smile, which he dutifully did. He was not still to be blamed, apparently. He would continue as Director-General of SAID, at the pinnacle. And Sir William, like everyone else, would continue to be unsuspecting in the matter of his real power. It could have been a great deal worse, he concluded.

Except for Massinger and Aubrey and Hyde and Shelley — the small party of the faithful. Sir William had made them inviolate — but they had to be silenced.

"When I return from Washington in a few days' time, I want to have a long talk with my god-daughter. Why she did not come to me at once I shall never understand!" Again, he threw up his hands melodramatically. "Dashing off like that. She was to hostess a small party for me next week." His full lips were twisted with indulgent humour. A confirmed bachelor, it was evident that Margaret Massinger had provided an easy, comforting surrogate child who had never cost Sir William money, time or tears and brought him some degree of easily gained pleasure. Parenthood without responsibility, Babbington thought sourly, an image of his own son, tie askew, dinner jacket stained, wildly drunk — a regular feature of the Tatler's picture pages. Ex-Eton, ex-Oxford, ex-, ex-, ex-

Suddenly, he hated Margaret Massinger and her husband. And sensed their danger to himself. What did they know, or suspect? The old ghosts of '74 had been stirring. If they knew, then…

Even if they suspected.

"I understand your concern, Sir William." The studied introduction of cool deference stung the older man. He glowered.

"Andrew," he said heavily, "I am not concerned. I want this foolish matter closed, like a factory without orders, like an old file. Closed. Finished with. Bring them back. Have them put on a plane home — today."

"Very well — William." At last, Sir William began to feel comfortable with his role before this audience of one. "Yes," he continued with a sigh, "I hope you can persuade her to desist in this affair. And her husband. The silly man persists in the belief that Aubrey may be innocent."

"That's ridiculous. You should have been able to convince him."

"I tried — dear God, I tried. This American passion for investigation… it blinds them to the most evident truths."

"I quite agree." Sir William's voice was lazier now, more drawling. They were two powerful members of the same exclusive club. There were no differences between them now. He smiled benevolently upon Babbington.

Kim Philby, Babbington thought. Or Guy Burgess. How they must have relished — loved, moments like this. Laughing into their sleeves. The cosmic joke. He trusts me, I'm on his side now that he's demonstrated his petty power. All pals once more. Club members for life, for eternity.

Yes, Babbington admitted to himself, there is a tang, a bouquet, to moments like this. The appetiser to the feast.

"But, if we talk to him together — forbid him to continue, I think he can be brought to his senses."

"That ought not to be beyond us. Margaret will certainly have to be reminded of her duty." He snorted. "The silly woman could have put herself in danger, for God's sake. Amateurs!" The word was pronounced with the force of some profound imprecation. An association of outer darkness, excommunication. Babbington thought: You impossibly pompous, blind old man.

Sir William raised his hands, more limply this time. "Ah, well," he sighed, "it's done now. There are no more than a few pieces to be picked up — and your job of cleaning house. Then we can move ahead. I want it all working like clockwork before I finally vacate this chair." The voice purred, and hinted at the identity of the next occupant of that chair and that office. Babbington shrugged off the compliment, and in the same moment inwardly reviewed the prospect with satisfaction. This was beyond the laughter-in-the-sleeve, the nod-and-wink of secret knowledge. In Sir William's position, his treachery would be pre-eminent; invaluable to Moscow. Kapustin would be little more than an office-boy by comparison.

"I'll have it in hand, William, before your return from Washington. Eldon can take charge of the cleaning-up."

"Let's just have it over with!" Sir William remarked with sudden and unexpected testiness. "Unpleasant, time-consuming business… let's get on with it, and then on with more important matters." His voice reproved gently and with immense authority. Babbington, like a tiresome junior boy, was wasting the house-master's valuable time. As if to fulfil the image that occurred to Babbington, Sir William added: "Let's not spend too much time with the Colts, shall we, and neglect the First Eleven? What's past is past."

"Quite." Babbington was satisfied with the self-control he had displayed during their meeting. He looked at his watch. "I have a lunch appointment, William," he explained deferentially.

"Of course, my dear fellow — as a matter of fact, so have I." Sir William stood up, and offered his large, smooth-knuckled hand. Babbington took it, smiled.

"Spring-cleaning will be early this year," he promised. "And comprehensive."

"I don't doubt it, my dear fellow — but, find Margaret and her silly husband for me, would you? I'd like to have a long, godfatherly talk to that young lady."

"Of course."

Babbington envisaged the tightrope, the knife-edge. Timing would be important; daring crucial. Sir William would have to content himself with eventually learning that his god-daughter and her husband had walked into the very danger he had always feared they might meet. Unfortunate, the meddling of amateurs…

As for Aubrey — if they once laid hands on him, he could be shipped to Moscow and his treachery displayed there for the world to see… before he was quietly killed. Aubrey might yet have made his greatest mistake. He had been safer in London than he was in any other part of the world.

Yes. Who dares wins, he thought ironically. Who dares wins.

Paul Massinger was afraid. Not professionally, but in a deeper, more insidious personal sense which he could neither quell nor ignore. Zimmermann's warning to employ his old training and instincts had amounted to no more than a half-hearted attempt to avoid surveillance at Schwechat airport when they reached Vienna. His awareness was clogged and weary with the images of his sleepless night; the turning, tossing body of Margaret lying in the other bed, pretending sleep. He had been unable to discern any surveillance. He had made Margaret walk with an American couple to the doors of the lounge while he held back, watching the passenger lounge, the stairs, the doors. It was futile; a branch of mathematics which he had forgotten and which would not return. He was no longer an agent.

He had given up the attempt and rejoined Margaret outside the glass doors in a bitter afternoon wind that seemed to mock them, and they had immediately taken a taxi.

Margaret talked quietly and obsessively in the back of the taxi. Occasionally, Massinger glanced through the rear window but saw no tailing car. The turning of his head was a duty rather than a skill. His wife voice's endlessly refuted the accusation that her father might have been a Nazi. There was Cliveden, of course, even an acquaintance with Mosley. But it was nothing, nothing…

He had not been allowed to take a commission because of his importance in the wartime civil service… no one had worked harder, no one was more outspoken of the need to defeat Hitler and the Nazis… people had trusted him… Churchill… Sir William would laugh at the suggestion… it had to be the woman… the answer was with the woman.

Nonsense. Ridiculous. Foul…

Foul, foul, foul…

Massinger's head beat with the voice, with its almost mad intensity. Nothing had changed. His wife was still obsessed with her father's death and the manner of it. There was nothing else. Nothing else, nothing else, his mind began to chorus with her assertions and refutations. Nothing else. The remainder of their lives together was at stake, he admitted.

Sobs like the separate, recurring pains of violent toothache. All night. Yet, whenever he addressed her or sat up in his bed, she had not replied but had instantly pretended sleep, holding her breath in the darkness of the bedroom as if listening for the noise of intruders. Until he, too, adopted a regular rhythm of breathing that imitated sleep. After a while, the sobbing would begin again, punctuated by sighs, and occasional stifled groans. The distance between the twin beds was a gulf. He had never felt so separated and apart from her and the sensation horrified him.

He recoiled from what they might find in Vienna, even as she pursued it fervently.

His call to Clara Elsenreith as he looked out at the Rhine masked by slanting, driven rain was one of the most reluctant he had ever made. The woman had agreed, almost suspiciously, to see them, but only because he was a friend of Aubrey whose name she recognised. She did not promise help or revelation.

The Stephansdom, in the centre of Vienna.

He could not recall, except with difficulty, that this was the city of less than a week ago, the city of the drugged KGB Rezident, of Hyde's danger.

It was hard to remember Hyde. He was a distant, drowning figure in the waves of his wife's anguish, his white hand raised for help. He was, in all probability, dead.

The taxi stopped and the driver turned and indicated the imposing seventeenth-century fasade of the first and second floors of the building that housed the elegant shoe-shop. Beyond the broad window of the shop was a cobbled courtyard which would contain the entrance to the apartments. Massinger paid the fare, tipping with unconsidered generosity.

Margaret got out into the wind, which distressed the hair she had perfunctorily tidied in the taxi. She was heavily made-up, and the effect was to make her look older rather than to disguise the tired, drawn appearance of her features. The wind chilled and sculpted her features into an expression of hopelessness. He took her arm, and, as the taxi pulled away out of the Stephansplatz, led her beneath the archway into the courtyard. A small fountain was toyed with by the gusting wind. Green plants appeared drab and hardly alive.

Massinger rang the bell. Immediately the security loudspeaker enquired his name. Then the lock was released, and they entered a wide hallway, elegantly carpeted, small tables dotting it as if items left over, superfluous. Wealth announced itself quietly and firmly in the hall and on the staircase. Massinger clutched Margaret's elbow more tightly, brushing down his ruffled hair with his other hand. Paintings, furniture, tables, sofas.

The door opened as they reached the head of the stairs. The woman, white-haired and perhaps sixty, was four or five inches taller than Aubrey. Perhaps Castleford's height — almost as tall as himself, Massinger realised. Yes, she and Castleford would have made what would have been described as 'a handsome couple'. But Clara Elsenreith had preferred Aubrey, hadn't she…? She was dressed in a shirt and trousers perhaps too young in style but worn with definite confidence, even panache. Her eyes were intelligent, quick to observe. She smiled, introducing herself.

"I am Clara Elsenreith. You are the Massingers. Please come in." Her cool voice might have been that of a receptionist. A young maid took their coats and disappeared with them. The walls of the reception hall were crowded with paintings, some of which Massinger recognised. There were many he felt he could give a current, and heady, valuation. Even almost forty years later, the sense of wealth clashed with the image he had had of Clara Elsenreith, bereft and penniless and an expert exploiter of men. She waved them through double doors into a long, high-ceilinged drawing-room. Gold leaf, gilding, and a wealth of paintings and ornaments. A high marble fireplace and tall windows through which the bulk and the towers of the cathedral could be seen. The room was warm.

She indicated deep, comfortable chairs while she perched cross-legged, hugging her knee like a much younger woman, on a high-backed, delicate chair covered with some heavily embroidered material in blue and gold. Her shirt was chocolate-brown silk and her beige trousers were elegantly tailored. On her small, narrow feet were flat gold slippers. She seemed to watch them with amusement. There was no reluctance in her.

"I've ordered coffee," she announced after a few moments.

"Thank you," Margaret replied. Massinger sensed that the woman regarded them from a lofty superiority, as if they were two distant country cousins who had arrived in the city for a first visit.

"It was good of you to see us at such short notice," he offered.

Clara remained silent while the maid brought the coffee. Modern Rosenthal for the service, the coffee-pot silver and old and valuable. Then, when the maid had been dismissed, she said, "I was curious. Especially since I knew that dear Kenneth was also coming to Vienna — and at the same time. I don't believe in coincidences…" Her English was throatily-accented so that it sounded almost false, the trick of an actress. "Do you?" She seemed pleased with Margaret's discomfiture and shock, as if it represented the last piece in a complex puzzle she had just solved. She nodded to herself as if to confirm Massinger's impression.

"He's coming here—?"

"He is a — regular visitor, Frau Massinger. A very old friend."

Margaret looked at Paul, her face suggesting she might flee from the room at the slightest suspicion of Aubrey's arrival outside the door. He tried to smile to calm her fears, but it was evident his expression did no good. She violently resented the information that Aubrey was on his way. She wanted only the truth, and he was synonymous with evasion and lies — and the woman was his potential ally. Massinger himself realised he should have considered this a bolt-hole to which Aubrey might run, if he ever had the chance. And, he added to the thought, there was a truth here, somewhere, even if it existed only in the woman's memory. Was it a truth dangerous to Aubrey?

His eyes roamed the drawing-room. The apartment was larger than their home in Wilton Crescent, more richly appointed.

"You're wondering," Clara Elsenreith announced, following his gaze. "I began with the shoe-shop on the ground floor. Then other shops, then small manufacturers. The shops sell my designs, clothes and shoes made by my companies… all over Europe."

Massinger nodded, apologising for his curiosity. The woman seemed uninterested. She continued: "You are Kenneth's friend — I know of you. I understand what you must have been trying to do… but I understand what interests your wife, also."

"Will you tell me the truth?" Margaret blurted, the shoulder-strap of her handbag twisted in her hands. Her face was sharp, urgent, demanding.

Clara considered. "What truth?"

"About my father—"

"Ah, then what about him?" She seemed amused at Margaret's anguish. Massinger suspected a deep dislike of Castleford behind the cool eyes. At twenty or twenty-two, she would have been very beautiful, very desirable. A confident, challenging air of sexuality surrounded her even now. "There are things… no, leave that. You wish to know what happened to your father? He died."

"And—?"

"I know no more than that. If I did, it would not be my business to tell you."

"Then you do know more—!"

"I said I did not." Her tone quelled Margaret's outburst. Clara was used to obedience.

"You knew my father?" Clara nodded. "You were his — lover?" Hope was more evident than condemnation; the need for comfort paramount. Yet Massinger remained sitting in his chair, separated from her, little more than an observer or witness. There was no part for him to play in the present scene.

"No, I was not," Clara said, smiling.

"But—"

"You believed I must be." She shrugged. "Perhaps I might have become his mistress, had I not already met Kenneth." She brushed her hands absently through her hair. "Kenneth was able to arrange matters for me to leave Berlin. Later, he arranged my papers here. He was able to help in many ways. Your father was more powerful, yes — but the choice was not left to me. Your father disappeared — died, we now know." Everything was announced in a cool, unmoved voice. Massinger could not decide whether or not the woman was acting the part they expected her to play — heartless gold-digger, living on her wits. He felt she had been attracted towards Castleford's usefulness, but…?

"You didn't like Castleford?" he asked gently.

"Liking did not come into it, not in those days, in that place."

"Nevertheless, something repelled you. What was it?"

"Possession," she announced, suddenly ruffled, looking hard at Margaret.

"Aubrey and my father hated one another?" Margaret asked.

"They did."

"And you — you were the cause. Possession, you said."

"No — I would flatter myself if I were the cause. In your father's case, perhaps… but," she added, turning to Massinger, "you know Kenneth. Passion would not disturb him so much, I think?"

Massinger shrugged by way of reply.

"It must be that!"

"Why must it?" Clara asked Margaret. "Why? Kenneth's dislike of your father was — professional. He interfered in Kenneth's work."

"And Aubrey killed him." Margaret had shifted her point of vantage. Now, it was rivalry, professional animosity.

Clara seemed to look to the far end of the drawing-room, towards an alcove. Massinger followed her gaze. An illusion that Aubrey was standing there was powerfully clear to him. The illusion stepped into the room. It was Aubrey, old and tired and wearing a silk dressing-gown below which pajama trousers appeared. He was, however, shaved and groomed. He appeared fully at home in Clara Elsenreith's apartment.

"Paul," he acknowledged quietly. "Mrs Massinger, I—"

"You?" It was like a curse.

Clara was mysteriously shaking her head in vehement denial, or to indicate that Aubrey was mistaken in revealing himself. Aubrey came to Margaret's chair, and studied her. She glared at him, then her gaze turned aside. Aubrey continued to study her for some moments, then turned to Massinger. His expression was kindly, sadly-wise.

"Is your wife ready for the truth she has come to hear?" he asked Massinger.

"Yes!" Margaret snapped in a hoarse voice.

Massinger pondered, then slowly nodded. Clara looked at her watch.

"Kenneth — I have appointments this afternoon. I must change. My apartment is at your disposal." Clara's lips demonstrated a fleeting smile. Aubrey nodded. It seemed that something passed between them, brief and secret like a coded message; it appeared to be affection, at least.

"Very well, my dear. It's my responsibility, anyway. I must explain everything. I need the help of these people, both of whom are dear to me."

"Then be careful," Clara warned.

"No, the time for caution is past. You run along, my dear."

Clara left the room with only a brief nod towards the Massingers. Surprisingly, she lightly pecked Aubrey's cheek. The old man seemed warmed by the gesture. He lowered himself onto the sofa as the door closed behind Clara, his gaze directed at Margaret. Then, without preamble, he began talking.

Zimmermann switched on his answering machine — his secretary was still at lunch and he had been out of his office for almost an hour — and listened to the familiar voice. Only its content was unexpected; disturbing and enraging. It was the Chancellor's senior private secretary.

"The Chancellor wishes you to take a week of the leave at present due to you, Herr Professor. This unfortunate matter of the suicide of a prisoner only hours after you interrogated her must be properly investigated. The woman's lawyers and family are prepared to make an embarrassing public display of their feelings — and of their suspicions that the nature of your questions disturbed the balance of her mind…"

The message continued. There was no order for him to present himself to the secretary or the Chancellor or to make himself available to any investigation. He was to be away from the scene until the fuss died down. There was no reference to any connection between the suicide of Margarethe Schröder in Cologne and the burglary of his apartment. A public fuss concerning a senior officer of the government, albeit one unelected, was the only thing of significance.

Zimmermann remembered another answerphone, years before, and the message that his wife had died in hospital coming hesitantly from it in an official voice. It had been late, he had been dog-tired, ready for bed, knowing he should not avoid the private room for another night and day where she was slowly, certainly dying — and then there had been the message. The pain and the guilt had been equal and immediate. The guilt had remained while the pain eased during the months after the funeral.

Now, this message was meaningless. Sufficient only to raise a small anger. It was also a rope that tied him to a chair, immobilising him. He would be unable to assist Massinger and Aubrey now, he realised that.

Someone had killed Schröder; someone had burgled his flat. KGB, or KGB-linked— had to be. They were worried, and it wasn't Aubrey they wished to protect. It had to be Babbington.

Where was Aubrey? his thoughts demanded as he switched off the voice that had now become unctuous and only served to remind him of his guilt at the lonely death of his wife — the coma she was in did not excuse him, the fact that she would not have spoken, would not have recognised, not even known him…

Where was Aubrey? If he could talk to Aubrey, he might still be able to help.

Otherwise — nothing.

"I went into the Russian Sector of Berlin to meet Clara's husband," Aubrey was saying. "Karl Elsenreith, formerly of the SS — Amt VI, to be exact, the department concerned with foreign intelligence under Schellenberg — and now working for new masters. The Russians. For a department of the NKVD." Aubrey studied his audience for a moment, then continued to recite his narrative towards the high ceiling and the long-chained chandelier. "Karl Elsenreith dared not return to the Allied Zone, or to the West. He was a native Berliner and his part of Berlin, or what remained of it, was occupied by the Russians. As for his wife, I am sure he thought it an inconvenience that they had become separated — but he had found consolation for his loss elsewhere."

"The Russians trusted him?" Massinger asked.

"They used him. They appreciated his talents. He had a comfortable flat, a mistress, an income, and an immunity from his former life and associates. In fact, his only problem was that some of those less savoury old friends, senior officers, kameraden, popped up now and again, asking for help. Money, papers, passage out of the Russian Sector, the Russian Zone of Germany. What could he do? He could never be certain the organisation might not destroy him. if he refused… so, he began to help. On my — final visit to the Russian Sector, I went at his request."

Aubrey paused and Massinger, after looking at Margaret, asked: "Why?"

Margaret flinched. She had half-turned in her chair, away from Aubrey. She seemed sunk in some private world of her own.

"He had heard of my — association with Clara. Evidently, he still cared something for her… or so I thought when I received his message. He promised me — certain valuable information if I guaranteed I would do everything in my power to help her, look after her. But he could not, dare not come out — so I crossed into the Russian Sector."

"And—?"

"It was a trick. I was blinded by the chance of success, and by the nobility I envisaged for myself making promises about my mistress to her Nazi husband!" Aubrey was mocking himself. Then he added: "Elsenreith was a charming, attractive, poisonous young man. I saw why Clara had been attracted to him, even though he no longer wore that obscene and glamorous uniform — and then I saw why he had really asked me to come. I was becoming too much of a nuisance to the Russians in matters of intelligence. They wanted me removed from the board — once I had given them all the names in my head, of course."

"But you escaped?"

"I did."

"How?"

"With help. People who helped me because they could not afford to see me broken. My people. It was during one of my transfers from prison to their headquarters — Elsenreith's office, to be exact. The car was ambushed and I was smuggled away from the scene and back into the Allied Sector."

"And that's it?" Massinger asked. "All of it?"

Aubrey shook his head softly, but Margaret caught the gesture.

"What else is there?" she challenged.

"My dear — there is no easy way to tell you this. The information that Elsenreith gave me — that he had promised me as a lure and supplied out of amusement because it was intended I should never be free to use it — was the name of the man in the Allied Sector into whose care and protection he consigned those kameraden who periodically embarrassed him by appearing with demands for help."

Hatred was clear on Margaret's face. "And—? And—?"

"My dear, it was your father…"

"No!" she wailed, and yet Massinger knew that, hearing it from Aubrey, she had immediately begun to believe it. Believing him to be her father's murderer, she had also in her own mind to believe all he confessed.

"How could he?" Margaret sobbed, but she wished only to hear of opportunity, not motive.

"It was easy for him, my dear. He was in command of so much valuable paperwork. New identities were easy."

"Then why?"

"Because he was a soul in torment," Aubrey announced. The words, the compassion with which they were said, stunned Massinger. "A soul in the most grievous torment."

"Oh God," Margaret sighed lifelessly.

"And?" Massinger pressed.

"I killed him."

The words hung in the still, warm air of the room, followed by a silence that seemed endless, inescapable. Massinger thought they would remain forever at this exact stage of emotion and knowledge. He could not see ahead, or see beyond.

Eventually, Margaret said in a stilted, dull voice: "You are his murderer, then?"

Aubrey nodded gravely. "In the struggle, it was the pressure of my finger that squeezed the trigger of his gun. Yes, my dear, I am guilty of your father's death."

Margaret seemed spent. She neither moved nor spoke in reply. Her face was turned into the armchair, her legs ungainly spread out, her feet turned awkwardly, as if she had been thrown into the chair. One shoe was half off her foot. She might have been a costume dummy rejected by a fashionable shop.

Massinger cleared his throat and said, "What hold could they have had over him, Kenneth? How could they make him do it?"

Aubrey spread his hands. "Quite easily," he said. "What he confessed to me, I believed. He had known many prominent German diplomats and soldiers and civil servants before the war. Many of them became his friends, as they did of many Englishmen of his class in the 'thirties — our age of innocence. At Cliveden, in London — parties, operas, shows, brothels, hunts, shoots… the same faces. Hopeful, confident, blond young men. Castleford admired, imitated, sympathised. Oh, I don't think he did much more than many others. Certainly, there is no suggestion that he was false once war was declared, even though he thought it lunacy on behalf of Poland, and further and greater madness when we allied ourselves with barbarian Russia in '41."

"But, before…?"

Aubrey waved his hand for Massinger to desist. "I think only indiscretions, loose talk — no secrets. No more than a friend at court, so to speak."

"So — what hook did they have in him in 1946?"

"A generous gesture. An old friend, one of the blond young men from Cliveden and all the other country houses and the brothels, appeared. He recognised Castleford in the street. He'd been skulking about the city for weeks, a hunted man… you can hear it pouring out, I imagine?" Massinger nodded. "Castleford helped him with a set of forged identity papers which described him as a Pole — a former POW, now a displaced person. The man got away. And sent his friends, one after the other. An endless queue, all wanting new papers, new identities. You see, we'd been catching a lot of the smaller fry whose papers were second-rate and poorly produced. They needed other outlets, fresh supplies. English papers, duly signed by Castleford and people he controlled who were not in the know. Elsenreith sent people, too. Probably, he sent people like himself, SS now working for the Russians. I had to plug the leak, close up the hole. I don't know whether or not the first young man who approached Castleford — he'd whored with him, shot with him, ridden with him, got drunk with him, I heard all this from Castleford — was genuine or a trap. He served the purpose of a trap, anyway."

"And so it went on?"

"For almost a year. Long before I got to Berlin. I didn't know why Castleford disliked me so much from the outset. I think now he was afraid of me. Clara — our involvement with her — was a blind-alley. She explains nothing, except perhaps the chance Castleford saw of winning her over and using her to keep a check on me. It never reached that stage."

"What happened — at the end?" Massinger breathed. He saw Margaret become immediately alert. The room was already becoming dark beneath the late afternoon's leaden sky. The windows rattled slightly in the gusts of wind. Yet he could quite clearly see her shoulders tense, her head become more upright.

"A struggle for the gun. I had listened to him for what seemed like hours. I had come to charge him, arrest him. Even when I saw the gun, I imagined his suicide, so desperate and tormented did he seem. Instead, he intended to kill me. We struggled, and he was killed. He died almost at once. It took me many hours, almost until daylight, to hide the body in a cellar and bring about the collapse of enough remaining masonry to effectively bury him. That is what happened. I have, if you wish to see it, a fuller written record which Clara has kept for me for almost forty years. I came here, desperate to destroy it." He looked directly at Margaret. She was watching him like a creature prepared to spring. "Now, you may have it, if you wish. It is yours by right, I almost think…"

Margaret lunged out of her chair, her loose shoe almost tripping her. She stood in front of Aubrey, fists clenched, her whole body quivering, shoulders hunched towards him. Her small frame threatened him. Aubrey sat very still, his face tired but still wearing the sadly-wise, apologetic expression it had worn during much of his narrative. It seemed to defeat any physical intention on her part. Instead, she scrabbled her missing shoe onto her foot and immediately plunged towards the doors as if escaping a fire.

Massinger stood up. "Margaret—!"

She slammed the doors violently behind her. Massinger made as if to follow her, limping suddenly from the renewed ache in his hip.

"Paul!" Aubrey warned. "Paul — not yet. Let her have a little time to herself."

Massinger was halfway to the doors, alert for the noises of Margaret's retreat, then his shoulders slumped and he turned towards Aubrey.

"You're right," he admitted. "I wouldn't know what to say to her. You're right…"

"The Elsenreith woman's gone out — there's only a maid in the place, apart from our friends."

"We can't involve the maid or her mistress, Wilkes — not at this stage. They're Austrian citizens. You're certain all three of them are there? Aubrey himself is there?"

"All three."

"Then you'd better get on with it. Take them to the house. Keep them there until I arrive."

"Very good."

"Be careful with the maid. And with your cover story. For the moment, the Massingers are only being detained in connection with their attempts to aid and abet Aubrey. Nothing more than that. Whatever they think or say to the contrary, that's your story."

"Understood. When will you be here?"

"Tomorrow — I have a number of important committees and appointments. Just hold them until I arrive."

"Very good."

She was dazed by her misery and by the betrayal she felt taking place within herself; parts of her mind — memory, thought, feeling, intuition, guilt — were already siding with Aubrey, accepting the terrible, haunted figure her father had become at the end. She had begun accepting the struggle with the gun, the intention to murder that Aubrey had recognised almost too late…

She struggled into her coat, dropped her handbag in the hall, gathered it up and clutched it against her, fumbling with her buttons. She pushed against the door, then remembered to pull the latch. The darkening air outside was chilly, empty. She went out into the courtyard. The fountain sprayed out almost horizontally in a gust of wind, the green plants looked dead as their leaves moved stiffly. The cold wind buffeted her, as if attempting to force her back into the house. She had seen the bodies rolled into the mass grave filled with lime on the grainy newsreel as Aubrey was speaking, the bulldozer's blade shovelling at the white, stick-like limbs and the lolling skull-like faces. The awful striped pyjamas and the Stars of David…

Now, the image would not leave her. She had seen it first as a child, part of a documentary history of the war on television. Now, it had become personal, attached to her like a leech or a disease. She could not rid herself of it. Her father did not deserve the image, not now that she knew the whole and exact truth, but everything to do with him was horrible, awful, foul…

She scuttled beneath the archway into the Stephansplatz. The cathedral's bulk was grim and sooty in the dark air, its darkness heightened by the street-lamps. Horrible. A soul in torment. Even the man who had gone to arrest him, who had killed him, had said that. Everything lost — he had lost everything — helping them — !

The voices of relatives pursued her across the Stephansplatz. Aunts and uncles, grandparents — even her grandmother on her mother's side — especially her, because her father had been anti-Semitic, that much she knew. He had admired the Nazis, befriended them — yes, she knew that, too. In the 'thirties, he had not been like many other brilliant young men — he had eschewed Communism from the beginning of his student days.

The voices clashed and reiterated in her head, and her shoulders and head ducked as if to avoid the missile-voices in the dark windy air just above her. Hurrying across the square in the beginnings of the rush-hour, she looked old, weak, and pursued by an invisible cloud of stinging insects.

The hardest knowledge of all was to know that he had been destroyed long before he was killed. That knowledge erased, cancelled out, expunged all other images of him, all his earlier manifestations. He was no longer the man she remembered, the man her mother.had gone mad through loss of… the man smiling into the camera and the sun or coming through the dappled light beneath the apple trees towards her childish swing…

Up, up — further, further — push harder, harder…

Their joined laughter on the summer air. Her dress flying up in the breeze of her upswing, obscuring the view of the Downs, his hands catching at the seat of the swing lightly, then pushing strongly — catching the ropes of the swing at last, when she was giddy and almost frightened — catching her in his arms…

He was gone, that father. It was darker here, and musty rather than fresh. The air was still… All those fathers were gone.

Destroyed. Robert Castleford had disintegrated.

Still, musty air. The reflected glow of street-lamps through high windows. Patterned windows. High, unearthly voices, as from the distant end of a tall tunnel.

She shook her head. More images of distress. She went on shaking her head, twisting her body as if she were held powerfully from behind. She was trying to escape the truth, deny it—

Because she believed!

She believed Aubrey. He had confessed to her father's murder. The rest of it, too, was the truth. Truth from an old man. She knew it was true. Just as she knew her father had been to Cliveden, had travelled and stayed with influential friends in Germany in 1937 — she had seen the snapshots; dead boars, wooden hunting lodges, feathered green hats and leather shorts or green plus-fours — black uniforms, too… her father had been laughing in almost every picture… her maternal grandmother had been half-Jewish and now she understood the old, old woman's suspicions of her son-in-law.

She believed it all.

She recognised her surroundings for the first time, as if she had only that moment opened her eyes. The cathedral — the Stephansdom. The great roof, the slender nave, the chancel — the musty, cold, still air, the boy trebles whose voices floated just below the roof.

It was something she did not believe. There was no comfort for her here, except that it was out of that apartment and out of the wind and she was almost alone. She sat wearily, perching herself on the edge of a chair, as if about to kneel on the hassock at her feet. She listened to the anthem, and the organ quietly decorating it. Dusty lights glowed faintly, running down towards the high altar. Gold gleamed dully, paint obtruded shapeless colour in patches and glimpses. There was nothing for her here—

Except the almost quiet, the almost stillness…

When she noticed that the choir and the organ had become silent, and that she was cold, despite her coat — her legs especially were chilly — she looked around her, then at her watch. It was almost six-thirty. Immediately, she thought of Paul, and she looked about anxiously, as if expecting to see him close at hand. She thought, too, of Aubrey, and of the written account he had promised her. She did not want it. She would tell him so. He could destroy it, if it helped him.

For the moment, she realised, she was drained of all feeling. She accepted her emptiness with gratitude. It was over, if only for that moment or that day. She would not anticipate its return. She stood up after chafing her cold legs. Then she turned towards the west door and left the cathedral.

The Stephensplatz was still busy. Crowds of people seemed to disappear into the maw of the metro entrance across the square. Homegoers hurried past her as she walked slowly back towards the shoe-shop and the archway and courtyard and apartment that she now felt she could confront.

She turned up her collar. The wind had not lessened. It flicked and whirled around her, lifting the skirt of her coat, as she passed under the archway. The fountain had become a weak, broken peacock's tail, and the green plants rattled in the wind. She pressed the bell.

And saw that the door was unlocked, not fully latched…

No one had answered the bell — she had not heard the catch released. The door had been open. She went in and up the stairs, rehearsing her manner towards Aubrey, especially towards Paul.

The double doors were open into the drawing-room, after the door at the head of the stairs had also been found ajar. Every door was open. The drawing-room was empty.

"Paul," she called. Then, more loudly: "Paul!" Finally, hoarse with suspicions-becoming-fears: "Paul!"

The chair on which Clara Elsenreith had seated herself was overturned. The armchairs and the sofa still bore the imprints of their three bodies. There were glasses, and a smell of whisky spilt on the huge Chinese carpet. She bent down to pick up one of the tumblers, and her fingers were red when she clutched it. For an instant she imagined she had cut herself, and then she saw the patch of blood on the pattern of the rug, almost circular and dyeing its tight pile. There was a smear of it on the chair, too, and on the arm of the chair, as if someone wounded had slumped…

It was the chair where Paul had been sitting!

She heard a faint, distant knocking, muffled and unimportant. Paul—! Where was he? Where was Aubrey—? Blood—?

She heard footsteps coming quickly, lightly up the staircase.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: All Our Rubicons

The sunlight gleamed on the fins and flanks of the parked and taxiing aircraft at Rome's Leonardo da Vinci airport. It was a bright, springlike day after the cold and mountains of Afghanistan. Yet for Hyde it was, also, a scene viewed through too much glass, too visible. It prompted suggestions of the imminence of surveillance and discovery, even though before entering the telephone booth he had swept the main passenger lounge a dozen times and found it clean of everyone except airport security.

He was still wrapped tightly in his dark overcoat. They had handed it to him in Peshawar as if it formed a part of a new and enemy uniform. They had watched him with clever, sad, disapproving brown eyes and serious dark faces. Miandad's people, all of them disappointed, hurt that it was he who had come back, yet punctilious in carrying out their dead superior's orders. Medical attention, food, bath, shave, telephone provision with secure line, transport. Because he could not write with his bandaged, aching hands, they had given him the use of a portable tape-recorder and an empty room. Once ensconced and securely alone, he had dictated into the receiver every clearly recollected word Petrunin had spoken concerning the retrieval of Teardrop from the security computer in Moscow. That and everything else had been done swiftly as if by well-trained servants, survivors of the Raj. Only their lips and eyes betrayed, at odd and quickly caught moments, their disappointments, the laying of blame at his door.

He had been bundled aboard a military jet to Karachi and put on the first commercial flight to Rome. He knew he was no more than luggage. Handled carefully and with respect because it was the property of a wealthy and powerful man, but it was nevertheless done in a remote and detached manner. His debriefing had been skeletal, concerned mainly with the way in which Miandad had met his death. Even the demise of Petrunin seemed of little interest to them. It seemed that nothing which had occurred was deemed worthy of the sacrifice of Colonel Miandad. Petrunin was the bane of the Pathans and the other mujahiddin. His death might console the families for the loss of Mohammed Jan and the others.

Thus, they had dispensed with his company as soon as they were able. Officially, he had never been in the country, had never crossed the border with Miandad. They had repeated many times during his period with them, Miandad's last words as reverently as if they had come from the Koran. Mr Hyde must be given every assistance, whatever the circumstances, whatever the outcome.

It was why their helicopter had spotted him, picked him up.

He had spent more than an hour on the telephone to Shelley, whom Ros had summoned to the flat in Earl's Court. He had been fully debriefed, even to reciting once more Petrunin's useless retrieval instructions. Shelley had been shocked by his revelations; bemused by the computer jargon; numbed by their incapacity to do anything against Babbington.

On the flight from Karachi, Hyde had slept because there was nothing else to do; nothing left to do. He knew, and his knowledge was useless to him, useless to Shelley. He had measured progress only by the decreasing pain in his hands and face.

Clumsily, with his bandaged right hand, he dialled the number of his flat, and waited for it to ring four times. Then he put down the receiver, picked it up and dialled again. On the third ring, Shelley picked up the receiver in Earl's Court.

"It's me," Hyde announced. "What's the news?"

"Catastrophic, Patrick — nothing sort of disastrous." Over the telephone, Shelley sounded lugubrious in an almost comic way. Yet Hyde sensed shock and fear beneath the gloom.

"What?"

"Babbington's got the old man, and Massinger."

"Christ, how? When? You didn't even know where they were yesterday."

"Vienna—"

"Massinger went back there? The glass around him was acquiring the faint opaqueness of his tension. I don't believe it—!"

"I thought they were in Bonn, with Zimmermann, just as I told you yesterday. But, they got a lead on what happened to her father in 1946, in Berlin—"

"What the hell are they doing bothering with that, for Christ's sake?"

"His wife's obsessed by it — poor woman. But, the old man was there, too — in the apartment of a woman he knew in Berlin, and one Gastleford knew, too." Shelley's voice was very quiet and distant, a long way away. "I've spoken to her — got her number from Zimmermann… he's been suspended from his post, by the way. The word from on high—"

"So, Babbington got the lot of them? They all walked right into the cage. Christ, while I'm out in Apache country, the old man's revisiting one of his old flames and the bloody Massingers are worrying about dear dead Daddy's spotless reputation! What a fucking mess, Shelley! What a God-awful fucking cock-up!"

"Feel better now?" Shelley asked after a few moments of silence.

"What else is there?"

"They didn't get Massinger's wife, nor this Clara Elsenreith woman. Both of them were out of the apartment when the two men were taken. There was blood on the carpet, and the maid locked in a wardrobe. This Elsenreith woman's a hard one but she's scared, too. She knows what's at stake — Aubrey must have confided everything to 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, how?"

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."

Ros snorted in derision and anxiety, then left the room. The cat squeezed through the door just behind her feet. Left alone, Shelley stood up and walked around the sofa to confront the unyielding map once more, the can of Foster's still in his fist. His other hand was thrust into his trouser pocket. He began toying with his car keys. The car was even parked two streets away, just in case. Alison had gone to stay with her mother in Hove — he'd taken that precaution immediately after Hyde's call from Peshawar. Arguing all the way to the coast — but he had managed to return to London without them.

He had used the excuse of having caught a cold in order to leave his office less than an hour after reporting that morning. He had returned to Hyde's flat to await his call from Rome and to tell him the damaging, possibly fatal news of Aubrey and Massinger. He had spent the greater part of the previous night on the telephone in his flat, and the last few hours before dawn trying to sleep in Hyde's bed, which he found too hard. He was camped out, homeless.

Hiding, he reminded himself. I'm on the run like Hyde. I am hiding. No one knows it yet, but I'm already on the run.

He studied the map once more, his eyes roaming at first over whole continents, then reading his notes attached to those embassies and consulates he considered most vulnerable to a penetration operation.

He'd run all kinds of penetration ops from Queen Anne's Gate and from Century House, plenty of times. But he'd never held Aubrey's safety in his hands before, and the concentration required to play this kind of esoteric chess — this war-game — would not come because the old man's face was always there at the back of his mind. He sighed and swallowed more beer. It was gassy. He belched politely. The room was warmer now, with the central heating turned up.

Come on, come on — make a beginning, he told himself. Alison was safe in Hove, perhaps walking their daughter, the dog, even her mother's spaniel along the beach. He, too, was safe for the moment.

Safe until he talked to someone. He could not approach Sir William without Hyde, without Margaret Massinger. Whatever he said would be transmitted directly to Babbington, and he would have endangered himself for nothing. Sir William was leaving for Washington that evening. If he spoke to him now, he would pass the matter to the Cabinet Office or JIC, and they would immediately inform Babbington. No — that way, Aubrey's final disappearance was certain, and time would run out for the Massingers…

He was Aubrey's only hope. He and the annotated, scrawled-upon map on the wall. He flinched at the responsibility, convinced as he now was that Aubrey would be shipped to Moscow as soon as it could be arranged. It made sense. A drugged, bewildered Aubrey would pose for pictures in Moscow, the world would believe his treachery, and Babbington would be safe.

Shame about poor Massinger, dying in that car crash… his wife was terribly upset — she committed suicide, you know… poor woman. It wouldn't take long, or much of an effort, to clean the stable and ensure the continuation of Babbington the Russian agent as controller of all British intelligence and security.

Pictures of Aubrey — Babbington must already have thought of it and needed only to arrange the delivery of the package to Moscow Centre… Aubrey wearing his new medals, Aubrey in his new Moscow flat— Before Aubrey died and was forgotten. Come on, come on—!

He moved closer to the map. London was out — too well-guarded, impenetrable. And he didn't have the people… Likewise Paris, Rome, Stockholm, Helsinki…

The Middle East — SIS were thin on the ground there, anyway. He'd dismissed Baghdad, Cairo, Amman almost at once… Far East — they wouldn't have the computer links to Moscow Centre in some places, in others they'd be too well guarded, too secure.

His long fingers touched, even caressed the map, smoothing it, stroking whole continents, countries. Nothing. All his notes, almost every one of them, registered hopelessness. The men he could trust were pitifully few, those he could still trust in senior posts even fewer. None of them promised the kind of expertise required in handling a computer terminal, gaining access using Petrunin's instructions, and coping satisfactorily with ingress and egress. And already, almost all of them would have accepted Babbington as DG, and the re-organisation of SIS into SAID. Aubrey was no more than an unfortunate part of their collective past.

An irrelevant sense of fastidiousness made him lift the bottom corner of the map and look to see whether he had marked the wall with his pins and jottings. Yes… stabs of felt pen, little stains, the pricks of pins — damn!

He cursed himself for evading his task. Looking behind the map—!

Map — curtain — map — Curtain… Curtain…

He had lifted the map like an old lady peering from behind her net curtains, glimpsing adultery or a marital quarrel or new furniture being moved into the house across the street. But the image of a political curtain, the idea of the capital letter — had come to him instead.

Behind the Curtain…

He'd noted one or two of their embassies in Eastern Europe already… a preliminary listing of Aubrey's people, the still loyal, the ones who would act word-of-mouth from him without official orders, without explanations… where?

He knelt at the coffee-table, a vague progression of thoughts unrolling in his mind, but shapeless and changing as soon as he examined them. So he moved with them, instinctively, quickly… where?

He shuffled the papers, casting them aside because they seemed no longer relevant; a foolish speculation. Yes, here it was. A handful of people — lower echelon as before, SIS personnel who owed everything to the old man, as he did.

Berlin, Warsaw, Prague, Sofia, Belgrade, Budapest, Bucharest…

He had to look at them on the map. He got up, the sheet in his hand — locals, unofficial, businessmen, SIS officers, clerks and cleaners and secretaries — inside and outside the Soviet embassies.

Berlin… His pen tapped at the city, at head-height on the wall. Berlin… everything was kosher between the Russians and East Germans — the old pals act. East German Intelligence was used by the KGB, they shared lots of work, security would be sloppier…

Berlin. Babbington would have Berlin Head of Station on his side already — Macauley would see the main chance, a London posting to East Europe Desk — Shelley's own job… who else was there? Clerks, ciphers — might do, might not? Shelley didn't know the men and therefore couldn't risk trusting them. Plenty of cleaners and secretaries on SIS's books in and around the Soviet embassy but no field officer capable of being trusted with the job.

He sighed with disappointment. The shapeless, changing ideas scudded through his mind. It was only their movement, their suggestion of energy that he obeyed. He anticipated nothing.

Warsaw. Nothing, not since martial law. SIS people had been picked up in the nets that caught the Solidarity leaders and so had many of the locals SIS employed. Warsaw, he noted with grim acceptance, was a blank piece of paper which he ought to affix to the map.

Bucharest — no. Too far, too many unknowns — possibly no high-grade traffic with the Moscow Centre main computers. Budapest — now, Budapest…?

A network had been rolled up there six months before. It had never been re-established. An indiscreet junior minster had been on the hook, right inside the Interior Ministry. He gave the names of all the others, of his contact officer, of the occasional visiting field controller, and they'd all gone into the bag.

They'd got two back, three were still in prison — two businessmen and an exchange student — and the native Hungarians had all been shot. Budapest — blank sheet, then…

Belgrade. Tight, because of Yugoslavia's non-aligned status. Just like a foreign country to the KGB. Plenty of Yugoslavs, but little to show for their efforts.

Prague… another old pals act. The KGB used the STB, Czech Intelligence, as its messenger-boys, its hit-men on occasion. The heavy mob. That obscenity of a Czech embassy built of grey concrete and smoked glass in Kensington Palace Gardens carried more high-powered aerials and receiving dishes than the Soviet embassy itself. The KGB and the STB played footsie all the time with one another.

Shelley remembered a report from a low-grade source that much of the communications network used by the KGB in Prague now existed inside the Hradcany Castle rather than in the Soviet embassy. As he recalled the information, he remembered himself as a tourist, years before, on holiday in Prague, and immediately his mind was filled with images of the huge, looming cathedral of St Vitus, part of the Hradcany. He'd queued for hours to get into its garish, almost oriental interior — Cologne cathedral tarted up for a pop concert, Alison had said of it.

He'd seen — they'd both seen — the big black Russian saloons parked like a defensive barricade around the government buildings in the castle. That had been before 1968. Now, they were back with a vengeance. Hand-in-glove, almost incestuous, the relationship between KGB and STB.

It was so pally, it was downright sloppy—

Shelley looked at the map. He tapped the city on the Vltava with his forefinger. He studied his list, then looked back at the city almost with longing. Who could he trust, out of all the SIS personnel in Prague, other than Godwin? Godwin was Aubrey's man. But — useless… Shelley heard the words echo in his mind; ashamed of them, bitter at their truthfulness. Godwin had been wounded in Germany protecting the life of a fake Chinese defector. He'd taken two bullets in the back and now he walked on crutches, moving two dragging, useless legs with their aid. Aubrey had not pensioned him off, as he should have done. Instead, the old man had posted him to Prague as a cipher clerk. Poor bloody Godwin.

Two crippled, dragging legs. No go. No penetration op in prospect there. Worse, Godwin had the qualifications. He was trained in computers, had used them at Century House before his Hong Kong posting, where he had agreed reluctantly to go and only because of the sunshine, since there was little or no computer work for him. He would understand — be able to analyse and explain — everything Petrunin had told Hyde. He would understand—!

"Damn! Oh, damn, damn, damn it!" he shouted. Godwin, fit and healthy, could have done it!

The ideas in his mind seemed to drain away towards a distant horizon, like clouds seen in a speeded-up film covering the passage of a day or even a week in mere seconds. Dead end. He touched the map once more, his fingers spread as if he were about to use some secret combination that would open a wall-safe.

Godwin had useless legs, Godwin couldn't even hobble without both heavy metal crutches.

His mind began softly chanting the formula over and over. Failure. Dead end. His fingers stroked the map, as if trying to coax some solution from its colours and contours and boundaries. Slowly, heavily, they stroked southwards—

Vienna?

Hopeless. It was called the city of spies. Everyone was secure and no one was to be trusted in Vienna. Impossible to mount something against the embassy there, even though Hyde — with good strong legs he could not help but think, disliking himself at once — was there, too. In Vienna, agents changed allegiance with every remittance — Queen's face, Presidential features, German philosopher, hero of the people… they obeyed only the faces on the banknotes. And Vienna Station itself was now being run on Babbington's behalf. No go. Definitely no go.

And then he thought—

Hyde… hydrofoil. Hyde — hydrofoil, Hyde-hydro…

There was a hydrofoil trip up the Danube for tourists from Vienna to Bratislava which took less than an hour, no papers required… Bratislava in Czechoslovakia… Hyde-hydro — He could get Hyde into Czecho easily—

The clouds rolled back through his mind as if the film had been reversed, moving more swiftly than ever, radiant with energy. He could — yes, it was possible, it could be done—

Danube. January. Ice—

The hydrofoil only ran in the summer months, for the tourists.

Immediately, he was defeated, his schemes shrunken and dry like long-fallen fruit. But almost at once, because the racing clouds of his ideas did not stop, he thought — Zimmermann. Even as he realised that Hyde could not cross into Czechoslovakia without papers and knew that he could not supply them, he understood that Zimmermann would have contacts in Vienna, that he could supply—

Ski-ing. A ski-ing holiday. Visas were settled at the border, not required in advance. All Hyde needed to get into Czecho was a hired car, a roof rack and a pair of skis as his cover. And an Austrian or German passport supplied by Zimmermann. And he could get out by the same route.

Hyde knew the what, Godwin the how. Hyde had legs — ingress and egress were his business… Godwin could coach him to approach the computer, Godwin would know the precise location and nature of the computer link between Prague and Moscow Centre… Hyde and Godwin, not Godwin alone.

Yes—

He would have to return to the office to get off a long, coded signal — EYES ONLY Godwin — whatever the risk to his security… and however much the desperation that had formed the scheme kept nudging him. Babbington was on his way to Vienna by now. Shelley glanced at his watch, then at the window. It was already getting dark outside. The street-lights were on. The map was washed with an orange glow, as if lit from within.

Desperate, but he had to take the risk of going to Century House, just as Hyde and Godwin had to take the risks he intended for them. Then he would disappear back here, to hide out. Godwin would know an untapped telephone and would be able to call him at Hyde's flat.

He sat down immediately. He wanted no truck with qualifications, with the minutiae of planning, the sense of the many dangers that pushed at his awareness like a madman at a door. Vast scope for error and failure—

No. No!

He began at once, in an almost blithe, superficial mood that he knew would not last, to draft the signal to Godwin in Prague.

Margaret Massinger was huddled into the passenger seat of the hired Ford as they waited near the exit of the car-park beside the sliproad from Schwechat airport to the autobahn. It was a few minutes after four in the afternoon, and the orange lights made the sky behind them prematurely darker. Clouds scudded in the wind, threatening snow if they but slowed in their passage across the sky. The windows of the Ford were misty with their breathing. The instrument panel glowed because Hyde had the ignition switched on so that the heating warmed the car. She felt uncomfortable with Hyde, her rescuer. He seemed an essential component of the trap into which her husband had been led by loyalty, by friendship — and by her. She blamed herself, over and over without respite, fearing he might be dying or even dead by now, and the blame spread like a patch of damp to include everyone connected with Aubrey and his downfall. Hyde was, therefore, a prime target for her outrage.

Hyde had found her sitting on a camp-bed used occasionally during stocktaking or by the manager of a small dress-shop owned by Clara Elsenreith. The woman had taken Margaret there less than an hour after she had discovered her fingering the small patch of blood on the Chinese rug, and told her to remain there. Once Hyde had been directed to Margaret's hiding-place, he instructed Clara to leave Vienna.

Where? she had challenged.

Have you got a summer place?

St Wolfgang, but…

Go there. Now.

The woman had agreed to do so. Hyde himself had witnessed her departure. He saw, also, the surveillance. Russian, he thought, rather than Wilkes and the other corrupted souls. They were evidently waiting for Margaret to return. Clara's Porsche would be followed, of course, but so would the tail-car. Clara had important friends in the Viennese police hierarchy. She had told her story to one of them — she was certain that someone was watching her apartment, following her car. She would be guarded all the way to St Wolfgang.

A pity her friends couldn't solve the problem of Margaret Massinger, her husband, and the old man. Vienna was Liberty Hall as far as intelligence services were concerned. The police just did not see, hear or speak. At best, they would expect to hand Margaret Massinger over to Babbington as his problem.

Hyde glanced at her. Guilt had made its inroads on her eyes and colouring. She was guilty now, disproportionately so; blaming herself for the entire situation and its outcome. And afraid they'd already killed her husband. She'd exorcised her father, for certain, but she believed it had taken her husband's life to achieve it. Because of the situation in which she had placed Aubrey, drawing Babbington's heavy mob after her to Vienna and Clara Elsenreith's apartment, he could feel no sympathy for her. She was an encumbrance, and a reminder that attending to her safety was the only task he was competent to tackle. For Aubrey, he could do nothing.

"He was on the plane," he said. He had returned to the car from the airport observation lounge only a few minutes before. "And he's being met." He had glimpsed Babbington hurrying across fifty yards of windswept tarmac towards the airport buildings. It would have been an easy shot for a rifle.

Hyde had no gun. He patted his waistband. Almost no gun. A small.22 Astra which belonged to Clara Elsenreith, and one spare 6-shot ammunition clip. A lady's gun with only close-range stopping power. He had never used one before. Those few field men and armourers he knew who had used the Astra advised that it required half the magazine to ensure immobilising any enemy. The gun did not provide a great deal of comfort. It was marginally better than nothing. He settled down behind the wheel in silence. The gun might be next to useless, but he had unwrapped some of the bandaging from his right hand so that he could hold it more easily. It had been painful, closing his hand experimentally around the butt. Driving the car, too, hurt his hands, but the pain was now retreating.

When the first escorting car passed them, followed by the limousine which must contain Babbington behind its tinted windows, the sight startled Margaret Massinger. She sat bolt upright in her seat, turning to Hyde, who at that moment switched on the Ford's engine.

"What will he do to them?"

"Who? Your old family friend and escort to the opera?" Hyde sneered. A third car was bunched up behind the limousine. It looked like a KGB procession. It was, he reminded himself.

Margaret's face was pinched with anger. "Yes. Him."

"I hear the KGB Rezident in London got pissed at your place a few times, too. That right, is it?" His hands touched the wheel gingerly, then gripped. A stabbing pain, then almost at once a steady ache he could ignore. He rolled the car gently down the sliproad, accelerating once he reached the autobahn. The traffic was already heavier with the first of the rush-hour. A caterpillar of lights rushed towards them. They were invisible in the thinner stream of traffic heading into the city. Away to their left, the landing lights of an aircraft flickered and winked.

"Yes," Margaret admitted miserably. Hyde desisted from further comment. Accusations, reminders only fed her guilt. Guilty, she was useless, even dangerous. "What will he do to them?" she repeated after a mile or more of silence.

"If it hasn't occurred to him yet, then it soon will."

"What?"

"The old man on display in Russia."

"How could he—?"

"Easy. Drug the poor old sod up to the eyeballs, take a few snaps, then get rid of him. Babbington would be safe then, because the old man's treachery would have been confirmed."

"And Paul?"

"An accident."

"No…" Margaret's voice shuddered, and she covered her face with her hands.

The three cars ahead had left the autobahn into Vienna and were climbing and twisting through the maze of a major junction. Hyde closed the gap between them, aware of the plethora of signs and distances and directions. The cars braked, turned and Hyde followed them onto Autobahn 23, heading south-west. He wondered for a moment whether he had been spotted, since the three cars appeared to be retracing their journey, and then decided it was merely a precautionary move. He let the Ford drop back into the stream, half-a-dozen cars behind the trailing.

He was alert at every sliproad and junction. They passed through Favoriten and Liesing before the autobahn turned south and became the E.7. The three cars left the autobahn at Vosendorf, turning west onto Autobahn 21. By this time, Margaret had a road map on her knees, and periodically switched on the courtesy light.

"It looks like the Vienna Woods," she said, switching off the light immediately.

"He's not likely to go further afield. I wonder who owns the property — us or the Red Terrors?"

The cars left the autobahn outside the village of Perchtoldsdorf and Hyde slowed, widening the gap between them and himself before he, too, took the winding minor road. Now that they had left the tunnel of lights, they could see the low hills rising against still-blue gaps in the clouds. Vineyard lines and trellises flanked the road. The village was quiet, glowing, tiny. Hyde saw the doors of an inn swing open, could almost imagine he heard accordion music and singing. Yet there were modern houses, too. New wealth moving to picturesque suburbs, enlarging villages. He saw a Porsche parked outside a converted barn, a BMW outside a modernised mill, a Ferrari standing next to it. They crossed a tiny stone bridge and, as they did, the three cars ahead turned off the narrow road into trees. He saw their lights dancing ahead of them on a rutted track. He drove beyond their turning point, noticing the narrow drive and the lights of a large, low house perhaps a hundred yards beyond. They were just outside the village. Hyde stopped the car.

"Welcome to King Babbington's regal hunting lodge," he remarked. "Who says crime doesn't pay. It must belong to the opposition. We couldn't afford it." He gently touched his hands together. Just aching… not too bad.

"Are they inside?" Margaret asked, the first tiny note of hysteria in her voice. It disturbed Hyde.

"Oh, yes — they're inside."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I really don't know."

A log fire blazed in the huge fireplace. The lighting was subdued, warm. The shadows of the men who got quickly to their feet as he entered loomed and swayed on the walls and ceiling. Deep old chairs, a sofa, gleaming block flooring covered by thick, bright rugs. Babbington realised the appearance and furnishings probably corresponded to someone's image of a senior Party official's dacha in the woods outside Moscow. However, he liked the house; always had done. It was a safe house in more senses than intelligence jargon implied. He nodded to the three men in the room. More shadows loomed as his escort trooped in behind him. One of them took his dark overcoat. He shook hands warmly with Wilkes who had crossed the room to greet him. Wilkes was Vienna Station; Wilkes was entirely necessary, even irreplaceable. The others were locals, one of them even an emigre Bulgarian, one of the mercenaries of the secret world. The dog-soldiers.

"You've kept them apart?" Babbington asked, letting go of Wilkes's hand.

Wilkes nodded. "All the time."

"Good."

Babbington crossed to the fireplace. The heat from the logs leapt to his cold face. He rubbed his hands together then offered his palms to the fire, bending slightly forward. He appeared intent upon pictures in the flames, but for Babbington there were none. He had his objective clearly in mind and there was no margin for error or imagination.

When his hands were warm again, he turned his back to the fire and studied the men in the room with him. They appeared, amusingly, like stark-shadowed passport or prison pictures of themselves against the white-painted stone walls of the room. His people — Vienna Station. Wilkes, of course, had been the beginning of it, approaching the KGB when he was first posted to the city. A greedy man, a man who sought money and also loved the challenge of betrayal. Eventually, Babbington was made known to him, and Babbington began using him. By that time, Wilkes had enlisted most of the people in the room. He was running Vienna Station by then, even though the Head of Station, Parrish, was nominally his superior. Parrish allowed Wilkes, as senior field officer based outside the embassy, to control the operation of the Station; to pay, to contact, to mount operations, and to recruit — most importantly, to recruit. Wilkes had recruited the locals and the emigres, even two of the men posted to Vienna from London. He'd done a very good job during the past three or four years. He had provided Babbington's communications base, and his eventual means of trapping Aubrey.

Briefly, and with an inward smile, Babbington recollected approaching the small, self-important figure of Aubrey in the Belvedere gardens. Only two weeks ago. Another forty-eight hours would see it finished with.

Them finished with, he corrected himself.

"How badly is Massinger hurt?" he snapped at Wilkes. "I couldn't obtain a clear picture from — your colleagues." There was evident irony. Wilkes's expression did not change.

"Not bad. He's been patched up. A doc the — our friends use from time to time. Silly bugger wanted to be a hero. He'll live. Just lost a lot of blood, that's all." Wilkes affected boredom.

"And Aubrey?" Babbington could hardly mask the gleam of satisfaction in his voice.

"Grumbling — threatening — full of bull, about covers it."

Babbington's face registered disappointment. Evidently, Aubrey was not yet a broken man. He wondered whether he should see him, or let him stew a little longer.

"No news of the woman?"

"Which one?"

"Massinger's wife — oh, dismiss your colleagues, Wilkes…"

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. Danger — "What's wrong?"

"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 turned his head so that he could watch the door, so much had Shelley's danger worked on him. The door remained shut. No smoke billowed fom the fire. The breathing went on for a few moments, then: "Who is that?"

Hyde did not recognise the voice. He held his breath. In his mind, the seconds ticked away. He had been on the telephone for almost twenty minutes arguing with Shelley. Ros was still protesting somewhere in the background. The man who had spoken to him demanded silence.

"Who is that?" he repeated, the softness gone from his tone.

Twenty minutes — all meaningless now. Shelley had been cut off from him, would be taken into custody, interrogated. There might even be evidence in the flat to suggest Shelley's scheme — he couldn't have planned it without maps, notes.

Then the voice said, "You're interested in a holiday in Czechoslovakia, I gather." There was self-congratulation in the voice, and Hyde's breath exploded. "Ah," the voice said. "Who is it?"

Shelley had had maps, notes — how much for God's sake — how much? Enough to kill his agent?

He'd called Shelley, Shelley had rung back when Hyde ran out of coins. Now, Shelley was under arrest, and they might even guess it was him on the other end of the line…

"Everything's down the pan," he heard Shelley announce clearly. His voice sounded hopeless, then Hyde sensed the message in the resignation. Shelley had got rid of almost everything, then…

He clattered the telephone onto its rest, hurting his raw hand, and left the cubicle swiftly. The smoke billowed out from the log fire as he opened the door then slammed it behind him.

The night was cloudy, the moon obscured. The temperature chilled him and he began to walk back towards the car, which he had parked by the bridge, leaving Margaret in the passenger seat. He began to jog slowly for comfort, for the illusion of fitness and freedom, for the paramount illusion of escape. He was enraged with the anger of a trapped animal.

There was nothing he could do except follow Shelley's plan, knowing that, at each turn of the path, they might be there ahead of him, waiting.

He reached the car, startling Margaret as he dragged open the door, climbed heavily into the seat, breathing hard, then slammed the door. He ignored his protesting burns. He glared at her almost wildly, malevolently.

"What does he say?" she asked in an apologetic but firm voice. She had applied some fresh make-up and looked younger. Hyde, however, saw only a greater competence which at once disappeared beneath his stylised view of her as an inconvenience; a dangerous liability.

"Who — Shelley?" She nodded, "He's just been fucking well arrested — that's the message from London! All right now? You've bloody done for everyone now! Satisfied?"

Even though the movement was awkward, and the blow without real force, Margaret slapped Hyde across the face. "Don't speak to me like that!" she shouted, a lock of hair falling free across her pale forehead. Anger did not make her beautiful in the lights of an approaching car, only narrow-faced and dangerous. "Stop blaming me for everything!" she added when the car had passed them. "Well, did he talk to William?"

"Your esteemed godfather is in Washington for a few days. Just our bloody luck!" His hands banged the dashboard shelf heavily. He winced at the pain. "Not even you can talk to him at the moment," he added.

"Blast…" she murmured, staring through the windscreen back towards the hidden house where, for all she knew, her husband might be dying.

Yes, Hyde said to himself. I've already accepted it. It's happened somewhere between the pub and here. He looked carefully, appraisingly at Margaret Massinger. Her perfume was seductively inappropriate in the tense atmosphere of the car. "What state are you in?" he asked bluntly.

"All right — why?" she retorted, turning her face to him. "Fine."

"I — have to find somewhere to leave you… somewhere safe. You'll be on your own, maybe for a few days." He, too, looked towards the trees that masked the house. Go on, he thought — volunteer.

"Why?" she asked, again staring through the windscreen.

"Something that may work — might help. Shelley's option. I'll have to try it now."

"And I'd obviously be in the way," she observed. Then she added: "But what about this place? If everyone's — confined, then who will you have watching the house?"

Good, he thought. "There isn't anyone," he said.

"But they could — could move them," she said fearfully.

"Maybe."

She was silent for a few moments, and then, after nodding decisively to herself, she said: "Then get me a camera, one that takes pictures night and day, and give me this car and find me an anonymous hotel…" She had been looking through the windscreen until that point, and now she turned to him. "… and I'll get you proof that they're in there."

"You're on," he said, surprising her.

"You don't object?"

"You're the only girl in the world, right now. We are the entire army. So—" He switched on the ignition. Then he looked very levelly at her. "Don't get caught," he instructed. "If they try moving either or both of them, or there are comings and goings, then get it on film. And make Sir Bloody William listen to you! Even if he's in Timbuctoo, get hold of him and tell him everything you've seen and photographed. Then pray he can stop it before it's too late. If you can't get through to him and can't persuade him to listen to you — you can tail the car they're in until it's pushed over a cliff!"

Margaret's face was unnaturally still as she struggled to control her emotions. She nodded violently, decisively.

"All right," she said, then more firmly: "All right."